


Po Lazarus

by emwebb17



Series: Off The Reservation [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Violence, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 07:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21032381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emwebb17/pseuds/emwebb17
Summary: Dean is a prison guard at a maximum security prison and catches the interest of a sociopathic hit man named Castiel.





	Po Lazarus

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally RPF. I did a basic find and replace for this fic. If there are glaring errors or things that seem a little odd, let me know and I'll try to correct them. This has been the most requested fic to have put back on AO3 as Destiel, and I just wanted to get it out there because I can't find the time to proofread it. Point of order though, this is an AU and the Winchesters are from Texas, not Kansas.

**"Po Lazarus" is an old prison folk song about a very dangerous man.**

Dean fidgeted nervously—but on the inside. Never let them see you sweat. His father had taught him that. Along with how to fix a car and drink Scotch like a gentleman rather than shooting whisky like a redneck. He’d also taught him to always show a lady respect, but to also let her know her place—and that did not include following one fourteen hundred miles across the country to LA. The Land of Fruits and Nuts his father called it and after only four months of living there, Dean was inclined to agree.

He thought getting a job as a police officer would appease his father’s desire to see him in a manly profession if he was going to live in a plastic town. And having a beautiful girlfriend who could potentially become a wife and give him grandbabies should make the man get off his case about the “flakey, actress harlot” he had foolishly gotten tangled up with.

There were only a couple of kinks in those plans. While LA was a huge city with a lot of crime with a massive police force, there were literally hundreds of applicants every year for only a few dozen spots. Dean had scored high enough on the exam that he was bumped to the top of the waitlist, but he was told it could take a year or longer to get into the police academy. He needed a job before then. And the harlot? Well, it had only taken four weeks for that to end when Dean found out she’d been sleeping with producers in order to advance her budding acting career.

After several weeks of looking for a job and burning through his savings so quickly he was terrified he was going to have to go crawling back to his parents in shame before the end of the year, he finally got a break when a sergeant at the LAPD had given him a call on a depressing Monday that the stupid perfect SoCal weather refused to let be gloomy. He’d been disappointed when the sergeant hadn’t been calling to let him know that a spot had opened up for him in the academy, but the suggestion he apply to be a prison guard—excuse him, “corrections officer”—had perked him up a little. The sergeant told him that he would get some good basic skills and practical experience that he could use to update his application, which would in turn push him closer to the top of the waitlist. All in all it sounded like a good idea.

Dean had interviewed within three days of applying, been sent to a crash course in weapons training (even though he wouldn’t be carrying while on the job), self-defense, and rudimentary criminal law two days later, and then given a six week trial run at a minimum security women’s prison. He’d never been allowed to work alone since he was a male guard, but it had helped him learn the routine and to no longer be surprised by some of the crazy shit that came out of prisoners’ mouths.

But today was his first day at California State Prison, Los Angeles County. He’d been hired so quickly in order to help stop-loss the woefully understaffed guards in the maximum security wing. And they figured he had enough training that they could throw him in the deep end and let him sink or swim. He could already tell that a lot of the other guards were less than amused about being saddled with a twenty year old, pretty faced newbie, but Dean was from Texas—that already made up a lot of the difference from his older, California-raised coworkers. Dean had been doing manual labor since he was big enough to carry a bucket while they had been skateboarding and lying out at the beach. Except for maybe Jose—the hard muscles and intricate pattern of tattoos across his skin made it seem like he had grown up gangbanging in the ghetto. Jose was the only one who hadn’t teased him yet for his pretty, pretty eyelashes and lady lips.

The teasing wasn’t exactly a new thing, but it was a little annoying considering all the lessons that had been drilled into him about how this job was all about respect. If the inmates didn’t respect you, you had no power. And if you had no power, you had no control. And if you lost control—very bad things happened.

Dean walked behind Melvin—he couldn’t believe people were actually named Melvin in real life—as they moved along the catwalk about twenty feet above the main floor of the cell block. Across from them on either side cells rose up in rows of ten, eight stories high. All of them were booked, double occupancy: three hundred and twenty dangerous criminals crammed into a space no bigger than the bare minimum requirement for the 10x10 cells. The doors on the bottom level were open as those inmates were being returned from their morning exercise. A trail of men in blue shuffled slowly in line, not eager to return to their cells. He saw one man in a green jumpsuit being escorted by two officers to a private cell. He was a child molester and therefore at high risk for being killed by the other inmates. He wasn’t allowed to go anywhere alone.

“Hey, check out the new meat!” one of the inmates called out and several others laughed low and dark.

Dean scoffed. “Is that cliché actually true?” he asked Melvin.

“Yeah,” Melvin said. “Where a lot of routine gives some men peace, it drives other men crazy. Anything new is worth getting excited over. And, until a guy’s broken in and they know he’s worth his salt, he is nothing but meat.”

“Hmm. So, which one is the new one?” Dean asked, stopping to look over the rail.

Melvin chuckled unpleasantly. “They’re talking about you, sweetheart.”

Dean whipped his head around to look at Melvin who was walking on toward the end of the catwalk. Dean fought against his angry flush and looked back down to see a lot of the inmates looking up and whistling and puckering their lips at him. So much for having their respect. The guards on the floor yelled at them to move on, so they just laughed louder, but started moving. Except one. Dean’s eyes caught on him and held. Even from twenty feet up his eyes were so blue they shone like they had their own internal light source. Dean could barely even register the wild dark hair and full, pink lips curled into a scheming smirk—he was like a mouse before the cobra.

“Winchester!” Melvin called from the end of the catwalk. “Let’s go!”

Dean shook himself and hurried after his mentor, such as he was, tamping down his curiosity about the blue-eyed stranger. He was getting the tour this morning, but this afternoon he would be helping to cover lunch service and he couldn’t afford to be distracted. Distraction was a loss of control. And loss of control meant very bad things happened.

*** 

By the time lunch rolled around, Dean had given out so many bland, unnerved stares that the catcalling had been all but abandoned. Melvin had been impressed with Dean’s will power, especially after a rather enthusiastic pantomime by a couple of inmates on the third floor. Melvin thought Dean had been fighting back anger, but really he’d been trying not to laugh. What was _not_ funny about watching a scrawny meth head pretend to fuck a three hundred pound behemoth?

Things were already looking good on the first day; he was earning the respect of the inmates and more than one had already reflexively called him “Boss.” Dean was surprised how much he liked that. He’d even started hooking his thumbs in his belt. It made him feel a little like an asshole, but that was kind of what the job required of him.

The prisoners were returning to their cells after lunch, and Dean was on the ground floor taking up the post in the middle of the corridor while two sets of guards stood at the ends. Melvin manned the electronic controls for the cell doors and locks. Technically Dean was supposed to have a partner with him but as he was still training under Melvin no one had been assigned to him yet. The cell doors on the left slid smoothly into place and the locks activated with a loud clank. Dean turned his attention to the right side as a couple stragglers were dragging their feet getting past the “stand behind” line.

“Let’s go,” Dean barked, “behind the line.”

Dean wasn’t small by any means being over six feet tall, but the man that turned to look at him was more than a match for him. Dean kept his features neutral and met his eyes calmly. The man muttered under his breath, but obeyed. The inmate in the cell next to his threw out a racial slur and the man stepped back out.

“What’d you say mothafucka?”

“I said your nigger whore of a mother spread so—” He didn’t get out the rest of his sentence before the giant man was lunging for his throat.

“Hey, hey!” Dean said, stepping forward and putting a hand on both of them. The guards at the ends were sprinting down the corridor. The two inmates’ cell mates had joined the fray, but the rest decided to stay out of it though all the occupants of the cavernous room had broken out into shouting.

Dean put a hand on one meaty wrist that was choking the life out of the racist ass who had started the whole thing. The large man threw his arm up and flung Dean off like he was swatting a fly. Dean stumbled back and hit the bars of the cell behind him. The other guards had arrived and were grappling with the inmates. Melvin stood by in the locked officers’ room, hand poised over the alarm.

Dean started to move to go back to help break up the fight, but he gasped as a hand grabbed his collar and then grunted when his head slammed back against the bars. The hand at his collar twisted and pulled to the left, causing the fabric to pull tightly across his throat. Dean struggled in a blind panic—he couldn’t breathe. He put his hands over his head to try to reach his attacker, but he was far enough behind the bars that Dean couldn’t reach him and the position gave him no strength to fend off the hands pulling on his shirt. The other guards were still preoccupied with the fight, and he didn’t think Melvin could see him.

Dean gasped in a shallow breath, but the noise made his attacker pull harder, completely cutting off his air supply. Dean’s vision started to go black around the edges. And then suddenly the pressure released and he could breathe. He sucked in gulping breaths and didn’t fight against the hand that reached through the bars and turned him to face the interior of the cell. Dean coughed and saw the face of his attacker—a wild-eyed man in his late twenties, bouncing anxiously on his feet and nursing his right wrist with his left hand. Then Dean’s eyes slid to the man who held him by the back of the neck, his long, muscular arm reaching through the bars and pressing Dean’s forehead to the cold metal.

Dean went still, caught in the gaze of a pair of hard, cold blue eyes, glittering with intelligence and mischief. The man licked his lips and Dean’s eyes tracked the movement—mesmerized by the drag of a pink tongue over chapped lips. He looked back up and was so close he actually saw the man’s pupils expand, swallowing some of that unearthly blue.

“Now, now,” the man said, playfully chastising, “not on his first day, Jerry. It’ll make all the other kids make fun of him in the clubhouse.”

Dean’s brow creased in anger, and no small amount of humiliation. How dare this scum think he could—Dean sucked in a sharp breath when he felt the hand at his groin. The man cupped him through the thick fabric of his uniform pants and squeezed and rubbed—_hard_—once, twice—Dean’s eyes widened as on the third pass—his cock responded. It had to be the adrenaline combined with a natural response to any kind of friction. It certainly wasn’t the desire darkening those blue eyes that wouldn’t let him go. Or the sharp angles of the man’s face that somehow came together in a bizarrely beautiful visage.

The man’s low, dirty chuckle made Dean’s cock twitch against his hand. “Good boy,” he said darkly.

Something hard banged against the bars, scaring the shit out of Dean and making his ears ring with the clash of hard wood on metal. The inmate hadn’t even flinched, but he’d released Dean when ordered to and stepped back to the middle of his cell. Dean backpedaled from the bars and felt a steadying hand on his shoulder. One of the guards—whose name he couldn’t recall at the moment—stood beside him and held the nightstick he’d used to bang against the bars. Dean felt a wave a dread flood through him at the thought that the officer had seen what the inmate had been doing—and Dean’s response. He glanced down quickly and saw that the material of the pants was too thick to give him away, but—he looked up when the guard yelled.

“Novak! How stupid do you have to be to attack an officer when you’re already skating on thin ice this month?”

The man with the supernova eyes put his hands in the air slowly and smiled amiably.

“It wasn’t him,” Dean heard himself saying. “The other one—he attacked me—and—and—he—Novak—pulled him off.”

“Rogers! That’s it. I’m pulling your card!”

“But, Boss!” the wild-eyed man whined, “We were just playing!”

“Shut-up. Come on, Winchester, we’ve got the cell block secured. Just walk it off and then we’ll go pick up the second floor from their lunch.”

Dean nodded, trying not to show how shaken he was. He glanced back inside the cell and Novak had his arms crossed over his chest, a grin plastered on his face.

“Good boy,” he mouthed.

Dean shuddered—because it wasn’t a shiver—and hurried after…Michelson, that’s it, Michelson.

The rest of the day Dean just couldn’t shake the feel of Novak’ knowing gaze or strong, cool hands. And it wasn’t even the hand that had been groping his crotch; it was the feel of slim fingers, gently grasping the hairs at the nape of his neck. He kept rubbing a hand against the skin there, but it didn’t help.

Before his shift ended and he could escape to his cramped, depressing apartment, Dean was taught the procedure for installing an inmate in solitary confinement. Rogers, the man who had attacked him, had been given three days in the hole. The “hole” was a small section of the prison that was divided into individual rooms that consisted of a 6x4 cell that contained a cot and a piss-pot. And that was it. A prisoner was walked into the room wearing both ankle restraints and shackles binding his wrists behind his back. The solid metal door was opened to reveal a small space in front of the sliding metal bars that made up the fourth wall of the solitary cell. The prisoner entered the space alone; the cell door was remotely activated to retract into the wall; the prisoner shuffled through; the cell door slid closed. Then the officer entered the space and unlocked the prisoner’s shackles through a thin slot just tall enough for a hand to reach through and wide enough for a food try to fit through welded into the bars.

Once Dean stepped away with the shackles in hand, Melvin told Rogers he could move. The first thing he did was scream and grab the mattress off the cot and throw it on the floor. Then he turned a look over his shoulder at the officers and smiled dopily.

“All right, Rogers. Have a good three days. We’ll have Daniels deliver your meals.”

Rogers’ smile disappeared. He started screaming obscenities and Melvin shut the metal door. With the eye level opening in the door shut tight, Rogers’ screams disappeared. Melvin slapped Dean on the back as they walked down the hall that led back to the cell block.

“Come on, Winchester, in honor of not dying on your first day, me and the boys are buying your first three rounds.”

Dean smiled awkwardly. It was Wednesday and he had to be work at 7:00am tomorrow. He wasn’t sure how many rounds he would be able to handle, but he knew he couldn’t refuse to make an appearance.

*** 

The bar the guards frequented was fortunately very low key with dim lighting to hide the dirty floors, music provided by a jukebox in the corner, and only one shelf of liquor. Dean was made to drink, in quick succession, two shots of Jack (disgusting) chased by a spiced version of the Captain (even more disgusting). The end result was that by the time he was on his second beer, his brain was fuzzy enough not to filter his thoughts on the way to his mouth.

“So, Michelson,” Dean said slowly, careful to pronounce each syllable.

“Yeah, buddy,” Michelson said, leaning on the bar so his eyes bored into Dean’s with the level of concentration only the truly intoxicated can attain.

“Who—is the guy in that cell?”

“Who, Rogers? Little chicken-fucker. Carjacker. Last time idiot drove off with a baby in the back. Baby is fine, but he was hit with kidnapping charges. He doesn’t really belong in maximum, except for the fact that he’s an asshole who does.”

“No, not that little ass polyp. The other one. The one with sapphire diamond eyes.”

Michelson blinked. “Are there sapphire diamonds? I hope not. My wife will want one.”

“Well, there are blue diamonds. Like, the hope diamond. And that _Titanic_ bullshit.”

“Awww, fuck!” Michelson groaned. “She’ll want a blue diamond now!”

“Don’t tell her.”

“But she saw _Titanic_ like fifty fucking times. Made me see it twice!”

“Twice? She must have a magical pussy.”

Michelson grinned and leaned forward, ruffling Dean’s hair. “You have no idea.” They giggled and then stopped. Michelson hiccupped. “What were we talking about?”

“Blue eyes. Guy in the cell.”

“Oh! Novak. What about him?”

“Who is he?”

“Oh. Castiel Novak.”

“_Castiel_?” Dean asked, drawing out each letter individually. “Fuck kinda name is that?”

“Iunno,” Michelson slurred with a shrug. “Castiel Novak aka Konstantin Novichkov aka Medvezhiy Kogot, translation: Bear Claw—which is not a pastry in Russian, so it’s a little more intimidating. Dude’s in the Russian mafia.”

“Really?”

“Yup. Does their wet work.”

Dean sobered just a tad. “And by wet work you mean…?”

“He’s a hit man.”

“Right.” Dean tried really hard to process that. “Fuck isn’t he in federal prison?!”

Michelson shook his head. “We all know, but it can’t be proved. In fact, none of the bodies have ever been found. No body, no crime.”

Dean’s eyes widened.

“He got busted for assault with a deadly weapon when he nearly beat two guys to death with a tire iron. Two fucking idiots picked the wrong guy to mug. It was the son of one of the leadership’s families. They’re, like, the dons or some shit.”

“Oh, so he’s a real family man,” Dean said stupidly.

Michelson giggled. “You could say that. He’s also fucking nuts. Not a sociopath—this guy is a true psychopath. Nothing going on in his head but his own weird philosophy. Sometimes he’s good, sometimes he’s bad. I mean, he’s practically a model inmate—until he becomes fixated on someone. You’re actually the replacement of the last guy he fixated on.”

Dean swallowed. “What happened to him?”

Michelson took a swig of his beer. “Still in a coma.”

*** 

Day two had much less choking and crotch rubbings. Days three and four were even better. Day five he left work sporting an ugly black eye because Bruno “Teddy Bear” Galindo had missed slugging a Latin King when Dean stepped in to break up the fight. Teddy had apologized, but he’d been given three days in the hole for assaulting a guard. When Dean returned to work two days later on Wednesday (he was given the low man on the totem pole schedule of working weekends), he’d learned that Teddy had never made it to the hole. He was in the infirmary with a separated shoulder and three broken fingers.

“What the hell happened to Teddy?” Dean asked Michelson, who had been assigned to be his rounds partner. They were walking along the elevated wall that overlooked the exercise yard; seventh floor was out and they were by far the easiest to manage.

Michelson shrugged. “Novak got a hold of him.”

That surprised Dean into a full stop, his jaw falling open. Then he hurried to catch up.

“What do you mean? What happened?”

“Well, we don’t really know. No one saw it. Well no one who’s willing to talk. Not even Teddy will talk. Which is not unusual because they tend to dole out their own punishments and revenge here. But there hasn’t been any retaliation. No hurt inmates. So, we know it had to be Novak.”

“Why?”

“Because no one will cross him. And no one would try to take revenge for a punishment he metes out. He doesn’t do things arbitrarily.”

Dean’s brow creased in apprehensive confusion. Novak seemed to have an inordinate amount of power in this prison. Mob guys usually did have a lot of power in prison because they had a lot of power outside of prison that could reach inside if necessary. But to have over three hundred people just accept that if he decided they needed to be punished they were just going to let it happen—that wasn’t just respect for his position—that was fear and awe of the man.

“But, why would he hurt Teddy? He stays out of everyone’s business. That thing with Salvatore was because Salvatore started it.”

Michelson shrugged and leaned over the wall. “Hey, Browning! Get off of Brigham’s head!” He turned back to Dean. “All I heard was that Teddy kept saying it was an accident. But I didn’t get the feeling he was talking about his own injuries. Anyway, I don’t know, dude. They’re criminals. Shit happens in prisons; you’ll get used to it.”

Dean nodded weakly. He didn’t know why, but he had an uneasy feeling about the situation. And that feeling was validated after the first round of dinner service. Dean walked with Michelson on the bottom floor, keeping a careful eye on the inmates as they murmured and shuffled into their cells. The left side closed first, and then the right. They were all secure and Michelson stepped close to one of the cells when a prisoner called him over. He stayed far enough away from the bars so he couldn’t be grabbed, but it looked like the inmate was just trying to get Michelson to agree to speak on his behalf in regards to having his visitation rights reinstated.

“How’s the eye?”

Dean spun around and saw Castiel fucking Novak leaning his forearms on a horizontal slat in the bars, his hands dangling over the side. Dean’s eyes were drawn to the delicate-looking digits. They looked so beautiful and harmless—and those hands had broken the meaty fingers of a man nearly twice his size. Dean forced his eyes up. Castiel smiled when he had his attention.

“Evening, Boss.”

Dean frowned at the use of the term. All the inmates referred to the corrections officers as Boss or Jefe—it was meant to be a constant reminder of who was really in charge in the prison no matter what the pecking order was among the inmates themselves. But Dean could tell that Castiel used the term because it amused him—because nobody could control him. Not really. Why was he even _in_ prison? How had he even gone to trial? It seemed like the Russian mafia could make things like this go away—unless Castiel was the sacrificial lamb for the mob boss’ son.

Dean took a shallow breath and glanced behind him. Michelson was still talking with Hernandez. Dean took a couple steps closer to the cell, very careful to stay out of arm’s reach.

“What—the eye is fine. Why do you care?”

Castiel grinned. “I’m a very cultured man. It hurts my soul when a beautiful piece of art is damaged.”

Dean almost rolled his eyes at the line. Were hit men allowed to be that cheesy? Then a thought occurred to him.

“Did you—did you hurt Teddy because he hit me?”

Castiel’s smile faded a little and his eyes took on all the warmth of an arctic winter. “Did he say I was the one who attacked him?”

Dean scoffed. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

Castiel chuckled, smiling again. His eyes were glittering in the fluorescent lights of the hallway, but like a cold, weak sun on a field of snow.

“So, why are you accusing me of attacking people? I’ve been here for seven months and no one has ever accused me of attacking anyone.”

“Is that so? How many?”

Castiel cocked his head. “How many what?”

“How many people _haven’t_ accused you of attacking them?”

Castiel grinned. “I like you, Boss. You’re clever.”

Dean crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow.

“Seventeen,” Castiel said evenly. “Sixteen inmates, and one very ornery corrections officer.”

Dean swallowed and uncrossed his arms, trying to appear less challenging.

“Why?”

“Why haven’t people accused me of attacking them?” he asked with a laugh. “I imagine because they had no charges to lay at my feet.”

“No. Why _didn’t_ you attack them?”

“Ohhh. Various reasons. But usually I don’t attack people when they touch my belongings—even though I don’t like when people mess with my things.”

Dean sneered. “Is that all?”

Castiel’s face closed off and he laced his fingers together. “It’s everything when you don’t have a lot.”

“Winchester!” Michelson called him, “we’re moving out.”

Dean nodded and stepped back, keeping his eyes on Castiel.

“Goodnight, Boss.”

Dean turned and followed Michelson down the corridor to the officers’ room. It was only when he was showering later that night that he made a very important connection. Castiel said he hurt people who messed with his possessions. Castiel had attacked Teddy. Teddy had, however accidentally, damaged Dean’s face. Castiel had hurt Teddy for touching his belongings, ie: Dean. Dean’s hands clenched and the soap popped out of his hand. And even though he was secure and alone in his own apartment, he didn’t want to bend over to pick it up. 

***

Dean all but avoided the bottom floor of the prison and did everything he could to get out of being on escort duty for that level. It wasn’t possible to never have to work the bottom floor, but he convinced Michelson to persuade Drake and Hicks to take the center position while he and Michelson took one of the ends. He kept this up for a solid month, getting used to the routine and the long hours—he’d been put on his permanent schedule assignment and worked the swing shift covering from 11:00am to 9:00pm. He did get overtime for it though and his first paycheck was a pleasant surprise.

At length, Dean relaxed and managed to put his strange first week behind him. He equated it all to new job jitters, some stupid rookie mistakes, and some psychopath just having a bit of fun. It was no big deal. He’d learned a valuable lesson, he had a (heavily edited) story to share at Thanksgiving, life moved on.

It was a Wednesday, the first day of his work week, when he was covering the lunch service for floors ground, three, and six. Dean steered away from the cafeteria line and paused by the exit doors. He really tried not to look, but his eyes were drawn to the figure exiting the line. The white T-shirt was snug across his chiseled torso and the blue cotton pants hung low on his hips. The inmates in maximum weren’t allowed to have pants with drawstrings or tight fitting elastic, which often resulted in a whole lotta crack in the prison yard—and not the illegal variety. But on Castiel, those pants barely clung to his sharp hip bones and the hard, graceful lines of his body were put on display underneath the soft cotton.

Castiel looked up and spotted him across the room. He smiled and promptly turned to Melvin.

“Boss.”

“Yeah, Novak?”

“Your cheap shoes offend me.”

Melvin raised a questioning eyebrow while Castiel calmly picked up his glass of milk and upended it over Melvin’s shoes. To the officer’s credit, he didn’t jump back or scream or even seem much affected by Castiel’s unexplainable action. He just leaned forward, putting himself right in Castiel’s face who didn’t pull back or have any other reaction to the invasion of his personal space.

“Three days in the hole, Novak,” Melvin ground out. 

***

The next day Dean was walking down the metal staircase to the officers’ room outside the cell block. He didn’t need to meet Michelson for another twenty minutes for their rounds, but he figured being early wouldn’t kill him. Unless it did.

“Hey, Winchester,” Hicks stopped him just before he got inside the room, “can you take Novak his dinner?”

Dean blanched. “What? Why me?”

“Because I had to take his breakfast and lunch and his creepy stare is giving me the Willies!”

“Aw, you know, I wish I could, but I have rounds in like, five minutes, so…”

“I’ll cover it. Dude, come on, just drop off the tray and pick it up thirty minutes later. No big deal. Thanks, man!”

“If it’s no big deal why don’t you do it?” Dean grumbled, but he was talking to himself. Hicks had high-tailed it like a coward. Dean shook himself. If he was going to call Hicks a coward for not wanting to deal with Novak, then what did that make him? His father didn’t raise any chickenshit crybabies.

Dean walked down to the cafeteria and picked up the food tray set aside for the inmates in the hole. Castiel was currently the only occupant. Technically the officers weren’t supposed to enter the solitary wing solo, and they obeyed that rule for transfers, but they were too understaffed and busy to worry about that rule for simple things like food deliveries.

Dean balanced the tray on one hand and activated the electronic lock on the door to the hole. He stepped through it while it buzzed, and then the noise cut out followed by the soft echo of the bolt sliding into place—locking Dean inside. He walked down the hall, past three doors and stopped at the fourth one on the right. He pulled his collection of keys on the retractable cord on his belt up to the door and struggled a little with the lock. The tray wobbled in his left hand and Dean eyed it carefully to make sure it wasn’t about to go clattering to the ground. He got the door open, bringing the tray down to both hands, and then looked forward. And just about dropped the tray.

Castiel stood at the bars, staring Dean down from five feet away. Normally prisoners in solitary were lying on the cot, or pacing the very small space, or doing sit-ups or push-ups. But here Castiel stood, like he was at parade rest: feet shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind his back, chin up. Dean stood frozen by the sight in front of him. The man was as beautiful and fearsome as the Angel of Death himself—and Novak fucking well knew it.

Castiel smiled. “Evening, Boss. I was hoping I would see you in here.”

Dean paused as he placed the tray on the slot in the bars.

“You were hoping? Is that why you pulled the stunt with Melvin’s shoes?”

Castiel wrapped his hands around the other side of the tray and withdrew, taking it with him. He set it on the cot and Dean used the reprieve from Castiel’s controlling stare to back up to the door. All he had to do was slam it shut, lock it, and he would be safe—at least for another half hour.

“Hey, Boss…?”

Dean paused shutting the door, and didn’t realize that one hesitation would change his life forever.

“What’s your first name?”

Dean knew better than to engage with the psychopathic murderer, but he was curious about Castiel. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he’d looked him up online. There wasn’t a lot of open source information on him though. He was (probably) thirty-two and a first generation Russian American (which was why he didn’t have an accent) and had grown up in Chicago. And that was it. That was all Google could dig up on the guy. And that was information that had been released to the LA Times when he’d been arrested. The man’s very existence was completely dependent on the one incident that had landed him in prison.

“Why do you want to know?” Dean asked.

“Civility.”

“Civility?” Dean scoffed. “I think Officer Winchester and Boss are good enough terms of address for civility.”

“Perhaps. Where are you from?”

Dean gave him a biting smile. “Will this be quid pro quo?”

“If you like.”

“Will you lie?”

“Only if you do.”

Dean shook his head. “Enjoy your dinner.”

“Texas,” Castiel said.

Dean turned back and took a step into the room. “What?”

“Northeast Texas near a big city, but not _in_ Dallas. One of the surrounding suburbs, right?”

Dean swallowed. He had been born and raised in Garland, Texas, a suburb of Dallas.

“How did you know that?” A dozen scenarios involving Castiel researching him online in the inmate library and learning who his friends and family were skittered through his mind.

Castiel tapped an ear with his finger. “I have a good ear.”

Dean just stared, watching as the man moved closer to the bars, gripping two of them in his hands.

“Texas though,” Castiel mused softly. “That’s still a pretty conservative state, even nowadays. I bet it was hard growing up there. Considering your sexuality.”

Dean flushed and went rigid. “You—! That’s not—!” Dean huffed in a breath. “It was adrenaline and friction and it wasn’t a reaction to—”

Dean cut off as Castiel just chuckled and pulled his bottom lip between his teeth.

“That’s not what I was talking about at all, Boss. I’ve been watching you for a while now, and you keep your eyes on my hands.” He strummed his fingers once on the bars, and Dean’s eyes followed the movement.

“They’re dangerous hands,” Dean explained weakly.

“And you ache for my lips.”

Dean drew breath to protest, but it caught in his throat when Castiel licked his lips slowly. Dean raised his eyes to those large, luminescent orbs shining like a lure out of his face.

“I don’t _ache_…” Dean shifted his weight.

“No, maybe not...not yet. And you don’t look at Anderson, though most people attracted to men would…so you only notice the ones you’re interested in. And being a good Christian Texas boy, it was easier to give that attention to the females that interested you.

“Hm, let’s see, you’re what, twenty, twenty-one? So you probably lost your virginity when you were sixteen because the ‘guys on the team’ encouraged you and that’s just what real men do. Not the football team though, not quite big enough for that, and your legs are too bowlegged to be the kicker—” Dean blushed. “So, baseball. Maybe lacrosse. And after you slept with her, a cheerleader or maybe the class vice president, you were able to brag that you had, but you didn’t continue to do it. Not while that senior was on the team.

“That senior who made you think and feel things your daddy would never approve of.” Dean clenched his fists in anger. “But once he graduated, you were free again. And who was it this time? Not the prom queen, certainly not. But some beautiful girl with an in your face personality: an actress. Or a singer. Someone who’s dreams could only happen in LA. And you followed her out here.”

Dean shifted his weight and tried not to panic.

“Hm, but you’re not still together. I’m not sure if you ended it or if she did, but you’re definitely single, Boss.”

Dean tried to laugh derisively, but it came out a little shaky. “What, can’t figure out who dumped who?”

“I’m not psychic. Though based on that response—you ended it. But because she cheated on you.”

Dean let out a small noise of dismay and looked away. “You just Googled me or something.”

“Is your bisexuality a fact I could have looked up online?”

Dean whipped his head up and looked hard into Castiel’s eyes. “I’m not—”

He froze when he felt the feather light touch of fingertips on the soft skin of his neck. He jolted back as he realized he had unknowingly gotten close enough to the bars that Castiel could reach through and touch him. He pointed a finger at Castiel.

“Eat your dinner. I will be back for that in—” he checked his watch. “Exactly nineteen minutes.”

Castiel laughed low in his throat. “Of the few things in this world I’m worried about, you coming back to me is not one of them.”

Dean swallowed a frustrated shout and slammed the door shut. He locked it tight and leaned against the door, letting the cold of the metal seep into his bones, calming him. Well that had been ninety-nine shades of fucked up. He didn’t want to go back in there. He spent the next eighteen minutes in the officers’ room debating about the best way to ask someone else to go get the tray from solitary without seeming like an irrational freak. Nothing came to mind, so he sucked it up and made his way back to the solitary wing, buzzed himself in, and marched down the hall to the cell that held Castiel. Even though he thought he’d prepared himself, he still started when he saw Castiel standing at the bars, tray in his hands.

“Everything okay, Boss?”

“Yeah, fine.” Dean stepped forward and took a hold of the tray as Castiel slid it through the slot. “Think of anything else you’d like to tell me about myself?”

“One or two,” Castiel murmured.

His hands shot through the bars and dragged Dean forward by the shirt collar. Dean dropped the tray, plastic dishes and utensils clattering to the floor. He put his hands up in defense, but the delay was enough for Castiel to get his arms and most of his hands back on his side of the bars. One hand continued to hold him by the collar and the other reached through the bars to grasp his throat. Dean braced against the pull of Castiel’s muscles, but he had a tight grip. He probably could struggle and fight his way free if he really needed to, and that was the only thing that kept him from a full on panic attack.

“C-Castiel—”

Castiel tightened his grip on his throat and Dean cut off with a cough.

“What’s your first name?”

Dean swallowed and felt his Adam’s apple bob under the hard pressure of Castiel’s hand. Castiel’s eyes were focused and had as solid a grip on him as his hands did.

“Dean—Dean,” he forced out.

Castiel smiled and relaxed his grip on Dean’s throat just a hair. “Dean. Dean,” he rolled the name around on his tongue. “I like it. It has a nice ring.”

The hand at his collar moved away and Dean knew he could pull away now. He would get scratches on his throat for his trouble, but Castiel couldn’t hold him with a limited grip on his throat through the bars. But Dean didn’t pull away immediately, and then his eyes widened when he felt a hand cup his groin. His brain screamed at him to move—struggle—push the hand away—anything…but he was paralyzed.

Castiel’s hand gently, but firmly, massaged Dean through his clothes until he was half hard. Then he pulled on his belt, loosening the buckle. That was followed by the button on his pants being popped and the zipper being pulled down. Castiel thrust his hand in the opening and Dean whimpered when he felt those long fingers stroking him through the thin fabric of his briefs.

“Shh, Dean, shh…” Castiel soothed him.

He was fully erect in no time, but Castiel left him trapped in his underwear. His hand disappeared for a moment and that made Dean open his eyes. He was looking up into Castiel’ eyes because the man held him in such a way that his knees were slightly bent. He still had his hand around Dean’s throat, and then Dean felt a hand on his wrist. Castiel moved his arm and guided it where he wanted it. Dean exhaled brokenly when his hand was placed on the shaft of a thick, warm cock. It wasn’t his. He knew what his felt like. Dean’s fingers curled around it, which is why he believed Castiel loosened his grip on his throat enough so that he could look down between their bodies. Castiel’s cock was slotted between the bars: dark, fat, and uncut. Dean felt a pulse of precome wet his underwear just at the sight of it. Castiel moved Dean’s wrist a couple of times until he started moving his hand on his own, pulling the foreskin back so he could see the pretty, flushed cockhead peek out. The tip was wet and Dean swept his thumb over it.

Castiel grunted and then said, “Good boy. Keep going.”

Dean worked the shaft, entranced by the feel and sight of the foreskin sliding back and forth until Castiel was hard and straining and fully unsheathed. Castiel’s hand grabbed Dean’s other hand and pulled it through the bars to cup his balls. Dean pressed against the bars as close as he could and massaged the heavy sac eagerly. His hand worked the shaft, occasionally stopping to tease the head and press a thumbnail to the slit.

“Shit, boy, they teach you how to cocktease in Sunday school?”

Dean gritted his teeth and didn’t respond to the taunt. He worked the cock in his hand greedily, panting with his arousal and trying to ignore his neglected dick.

“You’re so good, you know that? So obedient. Bet that’s that Texas upbringing. Yes sir, no sir, right away sir, may I have another sir.”

Dean pumped him harder, annoyed by his impassive, steady tone. He wanted to make him lose his cool, even just a little bit.

“Let go, boy.”

Dean whined and paused, but didn’t let go. The hand at his throat tightened. He released Castiel and sucked in a needy breath when Castiel pulled on the opening at his pants again, but he didn’t touch his throbbing member. The hand at his throat disappeared and Dean was able to look down. He saw Castiel holding his pants open with one hand while the other pumped his own cock. It took four or five strokes and then Castiel shot his load onto Dean.

Dean’s mouth fell open in a silent cry as he felt the warm come soak through his briefs and into the skin of his twitching dick. Dark wet spots blossomed on the grey material and Castiel gave himself a few more pulls until he was satisfied he had completely spent himself. He swiped a thumb over the softening head, cleaning up a couple droplets that hadn’t fallen off. He had to pull his arm back through the bars to raise it above the horizontal slat so he could thrust it back through and place his thumb at Dean’s lips. He didn’t even have to give him the order; Dean closed his eyes and sucked the digit into his mouth, cleaning off the earthy, salty taste of Castiel’s seed. When Castiel pulled his hand back, Dean let his thumb slide slowly through his lips, and then opened his eyes as he bit lightly at the tip. Castiel’s eyes were dark and pleased and dangerous.

“Cover yourself up,” he commanded as he tucked himself back into his uniform pants. “No one needs to see my claim. You just need to know it’s there.”

When those words worked their way through the fog in Dean’s brain, he stepped back in shock and looked down. His underwear was thoroughly wet, his cock still pulsing with want and need—the cooling come not doing a thing to deter it. Dean quickly zipped up his pants and buckled his belt, his cheeks burning with shame. He knelt to pick up the tray and dishes that had scattered on the floor, fighting back tears.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Dean.”

Dean stopped and looked up at Castiel, throwing as much disgust and hatred into his eyes and expression as he felt. Castiel just looked amused. Dean fled. He couldn’t even remember if he locked the outer door to Castiel’s cell. He deposited the tray on the desk in the thankfully empty officers’ room and bee lined for the bathrooms. Both of the stalls were empty, so Dean finally let out a strangled scream when he slammed the door shut behind him. He leaned against it heavily and put a hand over face, feeling his features scrunch up as he tried to sob quietly. He sucked in several deep breaths; they weren’t helping to calm him.

He dropped his hand and stared at the dingy toilet in front of him. He sniffed loudly, and then looked down. He let out another short sob when he saw that he was still hard. With trembling hands he opened his fly. The evidence of Castiel’ claim was still visible as it dried on his underwear. He gritted his teeth and pulled out his cock. He stroked it easily, breath hitching as pleasure spiked through his body. He dropped his head back and closed his eyes. His brain filled his mind with visions of smirking pink lips and glinting blue eyes. Dean moved his hand faster, biting his lip to muffle his moans. In his head he heard a warm, dark voice whisper, “Good boy. So good for me.”

Dean leaned forward and came, trying to get as much of his come into the toilet as possible. He panted hard and worked through the orgasm wanting nothing more than for Castiel to see him like this. Those thoughts faded away with the ebbing pleasure. He stood unmoving, mind refusing to function for a few moments, and then he flushed the toilet and tucked himself back in. He needed to get back to the officers’ room so he could take over for Hicks on the second set of rounds.

He exited the stall and washed his hands, splashing cold water on his face when he was finished. He braced his hands on the sink and looked at himself in the mirror. There was a faint pink blush on his cheeks and his eyes were a little red. He hoped no one would comment on it, but maybe it would distract people from his still wide blown pupils. 

***

The next day Dean found himself outside the solitary wing, holding Castiel’s dinner tray. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. He could do this. He needed to do this. He didn’t know what the fuck had come over him yesterday, but now he knew the kind of games Castiel played. And how far his slender arms could fit through the bars.

Last night he had been a mess. He’d barely made it through rounds and nearly hit three cars driving home. And then he had taken a shower and scrubbed his skin raw. After he got out he threw on some sweats and carried the uniform he’d worn that day and the offending piece of underwear down to the Laundromat on the corner and spent three dollars and seventy-five cents to wash and dry four articles of clothing.

The morning hadn’t brought with it any sort of clarity or relief, but he had realized that he would have to face Castiel again immediately or this would claw at him from the inside until it ripped him apart. He didn’t quite work up the nerve to see him at breakfast or lunch, but at dinner he almost had it thrust on him again as Hicks begged for his help. He’d complained that Castiel had been giving him death glares all day. He could only imagine what Castiel might do if Dean didn’t show up for dinner. Castiel had said he would see him tomorrow, but it had sounded an awful lot like an order. Not that Dean was obeying his orders. Fuck no. He was doing this for his own sanity.

Dean unlocked the metal door and even though he was expecting it, he was still a little surprised to see Castiel standing at the bars, waiting for him.

“Evening, Boss.”

Dean steeled his nerves and refused to show an ounce of uncertainty. He strode into the room and maintained eye contact. He wasn’t going to try to say anything—this wasn’t exactly the kind of situation a person sat down and explained their feelings and then suggested a brainstorming session for solutions to their dilemma. This was a simple matter of standing his ground and letting Castiel know that his stupid game had been just that: a game, and Dean wasn’t playing anymore.

Dean set the tray in the slot and Castiel took it.

“Thank you, Boss,” he said demurely.

He walked away and sat on the edge of the cot. Dean stood and waited. There were no comments, no knowing sniggers. Castiel just placed the tray in his lap and unrolled the plastic utensils from his napkin. He looked up as he noticed Dean was still standing at the bars.

“Did you want my Jell-O, Boss?” Castiel asked, holding up the plastic cup of red cubes. “I prefer the lime, really, so I don’t mind.”

Dean realized the dude was trying to eat his dinner. He shook himself and said he would be back in thirty minutes and then left the room. He was feeling pretty good about himself. Castiel must have realized that whatever mind game he’d been attempting to play with Dean wasn’t going to work. He hadn’t blushed or fidgeted or dropped his eyes. He had the control. And he was going to keep the control. Or bad things would happen.

Exactly thirty minutes later, Dean returned for the tray, feeling confident that the power had shifted back to him and he was going to be able to put this whole sick, twisted, bizarre incident behind him. He didn’t even react when he saw that Castiel was waiting for him at the bars. He was feeling good, until he was two steps into the room and noticed the tray was sitting on the cot.

“The tray?” Dean asked.

Castiel smiled. “You’re going to need your hands free.”

Dean let out a small laugh and got out the first sound of, “What?” before he realized what Castiel thought he was getting again tonight. Then he felt a blush begin to creep under his cheeks, and that just made him angry. “No way! Fucking forget it, you sick fuck! Yesterday was—yesterday was—I don’t know what the fuck yesterday was, but it sure as _fuck_ isn’t happening again!”

Castiel put his hands on the waist band of his blue pants, and Dean’s eyes followed, intrigued despite himself. Was he really going to—Castiel reached into his pants and pulled out his flaccid, though still quite large, cock and balls. He hooked the waist band of his pants underneath his balls and let Dean stare.

Dean’s fingers twitched at his sides and he licked his lips. No, no, no. He needed to leave, right fucking now. He leaned back on his heels, trying to will himself away. Castiel reached through the bars, taking one of his wrists firmly, and pulled Dean closer, drawing his hand to his side of the cell. As soon as the back of his knuckles brushed the soft, warm skin of Castiel’s cock his hand came alive. He grasped Castiel’s dick and started squeezing gently. Dean stared transfixed as his hand worked and encouraged the torpid flesh to thicken and fill. Castiel reached through the bars again to grasp Dean’s shoulder, pulling him forward the last step. Dean slid his other hand through the bars and fondled Castiel’s balls. He wondered what they would feel like in his mouth.

“Mm, that’s good, Dean. I’m getting hard just for you, sweet boy.”

Dean swallowed a moan at those words and refused to look up at Castiel’s face. He was perfectly content to watch the pink tip of Castiel’s cockhead slip in and out of view as he worked his pliant foreskin.

“Fuck yeah, baby boy,” Castiel moaned lewdly, causing Dean’s dick to throb in his pants. “I can feel those calluses. Not in the suburbs then…but a little farther out. Enough land that your family kept horses.”

Dean rolled his lips in and pressed them tightly together so he wouldn’t vocalize his desire. But he couldn’t stop himself from pressing his erection between the bars, humping against the hard steel that dragged against his large endowment.

“You weren’t some spoiled little boy, hmm? Worked hard. Got your hands dirty. A real cowboy.”

Castiel reached through the bars and palmed the back of Dean head, pulling him tight against the slotted wall between them. Dean whined and shifted uncomfortably, erection pinned between two bars, but his hands didn’t stop working. And he eyes didn’t looked away as Castiel’s cock got shiny and slippery with precome, fully extended and pulsing in Dean’s hand.

“You know how to ride, boy?”

“Wh—” Dean swallowed as Castiel one handedly began pulling at his belt buckle. “What?”

“You’re a proper cowboy, aren’t you? That means you know how to ride—keep your thighs tight while a wild animal bucks under you.”

Dean moaned and tried to lean his head back, but Castiel’s hand held him in place against the bars. His belt now hung loose and Castiel started on his fly. Dean loosened his grip on Castiel’s cock and began to trail his fingers up and down the heated flesh lightly, and then swiped a thumb over the head, and then gripped him tightly again and pumped fast and hard.

It may have been Dean’s imagination, but he thought he heard Castiel’s breath hitch. He didn’t, however, imagine the man’s pleased, filthy grunt as he yanked on the elastic band of Dean’s briefs. His dick popped up, but Castiel tucked it back in.

“Let go,” Castiel ordered.

Dean released his cock, but kept massaging his balls.

“Look up,” he commanded.

Dean raised his head slightly.

“Look at me, Dean.”

Dean raised his eyes to meet Castiel’s and could feel when Castiel started stroking himself. He cupped the man’s balls and rubbed a thumb over them. Castiel’s breaths got a little shorter and his body shook slightly as his hand sped up. And then Dean felt him coming—he had angled his cockhead into Dean’s underwear and spilled over Dean’s dick and lower abdomen. Dean gasped and felt a rolling wave of pleasure very similar to an orgasm wash over him as he stared into Castiel’s eyes and felt his come dribble down his cock, over his balls, getting caught in the dark hairs and soaking into his briefs.

Castiel closed his eyes and let out a low, cocky noise of pure satisfaction. He lifted his hand and put two sticky fingers to Dean’s lips. He sucked them in without hesitation and thrust his tongue between the digits, cleaning them thoroughly. When Castiel pulled back he released Dean’s head and stepped away from the bars. He tucked himself into his pants and went to retrieve the tray from the bed.

Dean was still mostly in a daze, but did manage to fumble his fly closed and buckle his belt. Castiel set the tray in the slot.

“Try to get the lime Jell-O, tomorrow, hm, Dean?”

Dean nodded dumbly and took the tray. As he was leaving the room he heard Castiel say, “Goodnight, Boss.”

Dean deposited the tray in the officers’ room and once again headed straight for the bathroom. This time he didn’t breakdown or get flushed with shame. He actually felt a little numb. Until he pulled his dick out and began to stroke his cock, feeling the tacky pull of Castiel’s spend on his skin. Dean braced a hand against the stall wall and pumped faster, turning his head to bite his arm hard to keep from groaning wantonly at the raw feel of it. It actually hurt a little a bit, but masturbating had never felt better. He sighed in relief when he burst over his hand in wild spurts. He wanted Castiel to see this. Maybe next time he should just stay and jack off in front of him.

Dean’s eyes flew open and his hand stilled it’s lazy, soothing pulls on his dick. _Next time?_

Dean dropped his head back against the door.

“_Fuck_,” he said with feeling.

Because he knew there _was_ going to be a next time. 

***

Dean glared at the lime green Jell-O as it jiggled and taunted him while he walked down the corridor to Castiel’s cell. He wasn’t sure how a gelatinous dessert could make him feel like he had no spine, but he hadn’t even waited for Hicks to ask the favor of him. He’d just told him he would do it and gone to retrieve the tray. The tray he nearly dropped when he opened the door to Castiel’s cell. He wasn’t standing at the bars; he was laying on the cot, full, erect cock slipping easily through his loose fist.

“C-Castiel!”

Castiel turned his head and smiled at Dean as he set the wobbling tray on the floor before he spilt Castiel’s dinner everywhere.

“Evening, Boss.”

Dean pulled the door shut behind him, which he had never done before and felt his cheeks burning with embarrassment and arousal.

“What if it hadn’t been me who brought your dinner?”

Castiel shrugged a shoulder. “You’ve worked here for a month, Dean. You’ve never seen inmates jack off before?”

And he had a point. In a place that had zero privacy, people lost their modesty really fast. He had seen more than a few self-service sessions after lights out on the days he worked late—and one blow job that he wasn’t entirely sure was done voluntarily. But that wasn’t point.

“You’re okay with someone other than me seeing you like this?”

Castiel cocked his head and tugged on his dick. “That’s cute. You’re going to be possessive of me?”

“What?” Dean blushed so hard he actually got a little dizzy. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You wanna put your claim on me like I did to you?”

The mental image of working his cock furiously until he covered Castiel in thick, white stripes of his come got his already twitching dick up to full mast. Dean swallowed a sound and put his hand to his groin, cupping and fondling himself as he watched Castiel’s long fingers play along his thick length.

“Hmm,” Castiel hummed pleasantly as he got off the cot and approached the bars. “But that’s not how this works.”

Dean stepped forward without prompting and wrapped a hand around the shaft, palm on the underside. He pulled up until his fingers spread and got caught on the fat head. Then he ran his hand back down and repeated the movement.

“And how does it work?” Dean ventured to ask, hypnotized by the fleshy catch of the head in between his fingers on each upstroke.

Dean yelped when his hair was snatched violently and used to slam the side of his face against the bars. But his hand didn’t stop moving.

“Open your fly, pretty baby.”

Castiel hadn’t told him to stop touching him, so he didn’t dare let go and struggled one handedly to get his belt undone and pants open.

“Eager for it today, hmm?” Castiel said rather nastily in his ear. “No crying today?”

Dean bravely, or foolishly, shot him a defiant look. “I didn’t cry yesterday.”

“But you did the first time…you’re such a good boy. You don’t do stuff like this, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“No, you don’t for anyone but me.”

Dean swallowed and kept up his glare. Castiel tugged on his hair painfully.

“No, I don’t for anyone but you,” he said quietly, obediently.

The grip in his hair relaxed and Castiel raised a hand to stroke a thumb over his lips.

“Good boy. So, so good.” He chewed on his lower lip as his eyes wandered over Dean’s face. “Now. Turn around.”

Dean went rigid. Castiel laughed and smiled.

“What, you think I’m going to fuck you? I’m not going to fuck you. Turn around.”

Dean, not really believing him and feeling trepidation about what was about to happen, let go of Castiel’s cock and turned around slowly. Having his back to the murderous convict suddenly made him terrified. This was stupid. He could reach through and choke him out. Stab him in the neck with a handmade shiv.

“Lower your pants and bend over.”

Dean glanced over his shoulder and then cried out when Castiel snatched him by the hair again and whacked his head against the bars.

“Don’t test my patience, boy,” he hissed.

Dean swallowed a whimper and pushed his pants down over his ass, but left his underwear in place. When the grip in his hair disappeared, he bent forward a little bit and then sucked in a breath and bent a little more. Castiel grabbed his hips and pulled him back so that he felt the cold metal against his ass cheeks, and then made him shift a little to the left. He heard the slick, sliding slaps of Castiel’s fist working his cock, and he would be lying if he said it didn’t reinforce the slight flagging of his dick that had occurred when fear had managed to poke its drowning head out of the sea of arousal currently overtaking all his rational thoughts.

“So pretty like this, cowboy. So perfect. The way you belong,” Castiel panted the last words.

It was demeaning and degrading, but Dean found himself pressing the heel of his hand to his groin, trying to alleviate some of the raging lust those words incited in him. The sounds of Castiel’s moving fist grew faster and the tension ratcheted up in Dean’s body. His whole body thrummed with anticipation. Then Castiel yanked his underwear down and Dean felt hot, slick come running down his ass to his legs. Dean keened in shocked pleasure and unconsciously spread his feet to part his cheeks wider—the second pulse of come ran down his crack and Dean reached a hand back and grabbed a bar behind him when he felt it dribble over his hole. He gasped and clenched and released—and felt some of it get caught by the rim.

Dean let out a choked shout and pressed his hand mercilessly on his dick, but he was coming in his underwear. Spurt after spurt of his own jizz spilling down into the crotch and mixing with Castiel’s.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, yes,” Dean breathed. And got smacked on the ass for it.

“Watch your tongue, boy. I don’t like to hear those filthy words coming out of that sweet, pretty mouth.”

“S-sorry.” Why the fuck was he apologizing?

“You can get dressed. And hand me my dinner.”

Dean really didn’t think he had the mental capacity to accomplish any of that, but he didn’t dare hesitate to try. It took a couple of attempts to get his belt on, but his hands only trembled a little when he picked up the tray. Castiel took it from him, perfectly composed and unaffected. The psychopathic asshole.

“Goodnight, Boss.”

Dean turned and left and didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn’t need to jerk off in the bathroom. Should he try to clean himself off? He debated long enough that he ran out of time. He walked nervously down the corridor to Castiel’s cell. What the hell would he have planned for after dinner tonight considering what they had done beforehand?

Inside the room the tray was balanced on the slot in the bars and Castiel was face down on the cot. He appeared to be sleeping. As quietly as he could Dean picked up the tray and shut the door behind him. 

***

The next day was excruciating. Castiel was back in general population, and seeing him amongst the familiar faces of his charges while he stood next to his coworkers made the shame and confusion come rushing back tenfold. What had possessed him to be careless and stupid those three days? Was he really so relieved that _someone_ knew he was bisexual that he threw all caution to the wind just please the man that had accepted it without a second thought? Accepted _him_. But that’s not what Castiel had done; he had used him.

He spent the whole day angry and bitter, yelling at the inmates and snapping at his friends. Everyone could tell this was not his usual personality, so they let it slide. But Dean knew he was going to have to have it under control tomorrow because his reprieve would be over. And if he kept taking his anger out on the inmates, they would lose respect for him. And then he would lose the power—he would lose control. And bad things would happen.

Dean rolled his eyes as he kicked open the door to his apartment. Bad things had _already_ happened. He dropped his keys off on a small table by the door and put his bag of mini-mart groceries in the kitchen. He banged cabinets and containers slid on the shelves precariously as he yanked the refrigerator door open and shut.

His mood was not improved by a microwavable dinner or a viewing of _The Daily Show_. He just needed to shower and go to bed. The warm water had soothed him a little, and not having to wash Castiel’s dried come off his genitals was a nice change. But then that made him think of him.

“Shit,” Dean said softly as he flopped naked onto his bed. He didn’t need this bullshit in his life. He wondered how long Castiel fucking Novak was going to be in prison. Aggravated assault with a deadly weapon and attempted murder? Probably a good ten to fifteen years if not longer. So much for waiting him out.

Dean turned his head and saw his laundry basket poking halfway out of his closet. On top of the pile was a pair of light blue briefs. What were those doing there? Hadn’t he buried them under the pile? Dean got up to do just that and found himself hesitating when he picked them up in his hand. This pair was very stiff in the crotch—thick with Castiel’s and Dean’s mixed come.

Before he knew what was happening, Dean backed up to his bed and fell back onto it. He put the underwear to his mouth and breathed in the heady, cloying scent of their shared released. A pleasant throb started between his legs and could feel his cock fill and lengthen. Dean moved the underwear to keep part of it over his nose and the rest pressed against his mouth as he turned over. His hips began to rock, the sheets giving his cock a nice soft friction to work against. Dean began to hump the mattress in earnest and breathed through his mouth, tasting Castiel as the scent dragged over his tongue. He moaned brokenly as he sucked part of the fabric into his mouth and shot his load into the warm drag of the sheets. He settled down slowly, drifting on a strange high. He pulled the underwear away from his face.

“The fuck is wrong with me?” 

***

Dean made sure to wash all his clothing the next day and went about his business over the next several weeks as detachedly and professionally as possible. He joined the guys for a few beers after work one night and flirted with the semi-attractive waitress. She joined them when her shift was over and she seemed to enjoy watching the five men in uniform fall all over themselves for her attention, never mind that only two were single. They did tequila shots, taking turns licking the salt from various body parts. When Minnie’s turn came to pick a spot to get her salt, she chose Dean’s neck and sucked the salt off more than licked. Dean had giggled and let her do it, but made sure to encourage Drake to make his willingness to take her home was out and on the table because Dean just wasn’t feeling it.

The next day at work had him feeling almost like things were back to normal. He didn’t blush when Castiel passed by him—well, not _every_ time. He could poke fun at Melvin’s and Daniels’ complete inability to deal with hangovers anymore and laughed with Michelson and Hicks when Drake described a very interesting night with Minnie. All in all he was having a good day.

Lunch service was calmer than usual. Nobody was posturing or throwing thinly veiled threats around. He didn’t relax his guard at all in the room full of dangerous men, but he felt confident in himself as he stood among them. He didn’t even stiffen or get particularly nervous when Castiel walked right up to him—two cups of lime Jell-O on his tray when he should only be allowed one. Castiel smiled at him and suddenly there were butterflies in his stomach—butterflies getting eaten by giant monster worm-snakes.

“Where did you get that mark on your neck, Boss?”

Dean automatically raised a hand to where he remembered Minnie sucking on him the previous night. Castiel’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

“Yes, that one,” he said just on the wrong side of pleasant.

“A-a waitress. We were doing tequila shots. That’s all.”

“That’s all?”

Dean nodded.

Castiel smiled again and turned away. He crossed the room to stand in front of Michelson. Dean couldn’t hear what he said, but Michelson’s entire head turned bright red.

“Novak! You’re going in the hole! Three days!”

Two of the day shift guards came forward and took Castiel by the arms after he set his tray down. They marched him out of the lunch room and as he passed Dean he said, “See you at dinner, Boss.” 

***

“No. I won’t do it,” Dean said. “I’ve got to fill out the incident report about what happened with Biggs and Ramirez and I don’t have time to do your duties as well.”

“Come onnnn,” Hicks whined. “This will help you if you do this for me.”

“How?”

“Because then I’ll have to do your rounds, which is an hour. All you have to do is drop off the tray and pick it up later. That leaves at least forty-five minutes for you to work on your report before the second set of rounds.”

Dean had no argument for that. Well, he did, but he couldn’t very well tell Hicks that he would probably only have fifteen minutes to work on the report since he was inevitably going to spend thirty minutes apologizing to Castiel for letting a woman put a hickey on him. Most likely on his knees. Dean waved a hand in defeat because he really _couldn’t_ tell Hicks that and found himself standing outside Castiel’s cell at dinner time. It was Castiel’s usual spot—fourth door on the right. Apparently he always requested this cell. With a devious mind like Castiel’s he wondered why no one had ever questioned that.

Castiel stood at the bars tonight and immediately signaled for Dean to put down the tray. Dean obeyed and stepped closer to the man with the bright, glittering eyes that gave the illusion of turning slowly and fading lighter and darker like stars. Now Dean understood the term “kaleidoscope eyes.” He wondered if Lucy had been psychotic as well.

Castiel lowered his pants and revealed a half-erect cock. Dean felt a little satisfaction in knowing the man might have gotten excited while anticipating him. He reached a hand out and Castiel slapped his wrist.

“No. Bad boys don’t get to use their hands.”

Dean met Castiel’s eyes and parted his lips in surprise. Castiel smirked.

“Exactly,” he said, reaching through the slats and taking Dean’s chin in his hand. His thumb played with Dean’s full lower lip. “Hands behind your back.”

Dean clasped his left wrist in his right hand and felt his mouth go dry. He’d only been taunting himself when he’d had the thought that he would have to get on his knees for Castiel. Hadn’t he…?

Castiel made a soft noise in the back of his throat and Dean’s dick responded to the needy sound.

“You’re fucking good, baby boy. You know that?”

Dean nodded. Because he was good.

“Down you go,” Castiel said, and let go of his chin.

Dean sank straight down and worked his tongue in his mouth to generate some saliva. He didn’t want Castiel to feel his cottonmouth. Dean frowned a little. Why did he care what Castiel thought of him, his body, or his oral sex skills?

“What’s the matter, little cowboy?” Castiel asked patronizingly. He ran his fingers through Dean’s hair and the young man looked up at him.

_Everything_. “Nothing’s wrong.”

The grip in his hair tightened. “I don’t like it when you lie to me. Let me tell you story.” He jerked Dean’s head forward and he parted his lips to accept the tip of Castiel’s cock in his mouth. His lips stretched wide around the fat head—fuck he was big. And his precome was a little bitterer than his jizz, but Dean had already acquired a taste for it.

“When I was…thirteen or fourteen,” Castiel began as Dean suckled his cockhead, laving his tongue flat over the slit. “I was on the skinny side. I had long hair that I wore in a ponytail. And it was blonde. Can you believe that, sweet boy?”

Dean shook his head and shuffled forward on his knees to take more of Castiel’s cock into his mouth, but the man shuffled back too so that he could only get the head in his mouth. He sucked harder and swallowed the dollop of precome that fell on his tongue.

“Oh, I was a sight. Anyway, I had a good friend named Ryan. Now Ryan was a bit of a pyrophile, which I was fine with because when done correctly, arson can be a thing of beauty.”

Dean closed his lips around the head and looked up at Castiel with a raised eyebrow. Castiel chuckled and stroked a hand through Dean’s hair. Dean went back to sucking.

“One day we were going to light up an abandoned trailer in a field outside the city, but Ryan told me he couldn’t go that day because his mother had made him a dentist appointment. The dentist—ah!” Castiel pulled on Dean’s hair viciously and tears sprang to his eyes. “Easy with the teeth, boy.”

Dean pressed forward to try to take more in, but again Castiel moved back. Dean’s face pressed against the bars and no matter how much he strained forward he couldn’t get more than the tip in his mouth. He wrapped his lips and tongue around it desperately.

“I decided I was going to set the trailer on fire anyway. I didn’t have anything else to do that day. So, I went out to the field with a gallon of gasoline and a Bic lighter—and I lit it up like Christmas. Uhn—fuck, baby boy, your tongue is wicked.”

Dean hummed at the praise and Castiel rewarded him with another half inch. Dean worked his jaw, doing his best to pull another groan from Castiel’s lips.

“You see though, my sweet boy, Ryan had lied to me. He didn’t have a dentist appointment. Mm, Dean, you suck cock so well. Was I wrong about your sexual experience? You suck off slutty bartenders in back alleys on your nights off?”

Dean looked up at Castiel from under his lashes and teased the slit with the tip of his tongue. Castiel’s eyes were hooded and his lips parted as he took deep breaths in through his mouth.

“Do you, pretty boy?”

Dean shook his head and pushed his forehead against the bars, whining when they prevented him from swallowing the man down. He sucked rapidly at the tip and Castiel’s fingers clenched and unclenched in his hair.

“Ryan was in that trailer, you see. He’d lied so he could sneak off with a girl. And I set it on fire.”

Dean’s eyes flew open and Castiel groaned loudly as his come pulsed in four strong bursts into Dean’s mouth. Dean sealed his lips around the tip and swallowed, sucking gently at the warm, quivering head.

“Oh, fuck yes, baby. You’re fucking perfect, you know that?”

Dean felt warmth spread in his chest and his cock painfully reminded him it was still around and still hard. Dean sat back on his heels and Castiel let him go by releasing his hair. He grimaced as his knees protested being on the hard concrete for so long. He kept his hands behind his back, just in case, and looked up at Castiel wondering if there was a skewed moral to this story. Castiel laughed at his expression.

“Don’t worry, sweet boy, they lived. The trailer didn’t burn well and put itself out. They just suffered a little smoke inhalation. But you see, bad things happen when you lie.”

Dean ran his tongue over his teeth, the lingering taste of Castiel making his mouth water.

“But did you know they were in the trailer before you set it on fire?”

Castiel laughed as he tucked himself away. “Bring me my dinner. You’ve already had yours, but I’m still hungry.”

Dean obeyed and Castiel gave him a wink as he took the tray and sat on the cot.

“Go jerk off in the bathroom, Dean. Come in your panties, and bring them back to me.”

Dean blushed. “I don’t wear panties.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you should.”

Dean spun around and left before Castiel turned that “maybe” into an order. He was not going to spend his days off trying to figure out what size he wore in panties on the Victoria’s Secret webpage. But he did what he was told and jacked himself quick and hard in the bathroom, making sure to spill his come in a concentrated puddle in the crotch of his briefs. It felt weird as fuck to walk around in his uniform without underwear, but Castiel had been so pleased when he traded the dinner tray for Dean’s used briefs. He wadded them up in his hand and brought them to his face to inhale deeply. Dean had whimpered softly and felt his dick try to come alive again.

“That’s my good boy,” Castiel murmured softly. Then louder he said, “Goodnight, Boss.” 

***

The second night found Dean on his knees again, this time padded with Castiel’s pillow that he had squeezed through the bars without comment. Dean had both hands wrapped tightly around the bars, where Castiel said he had to keep them. And he was crying and moaning and bucking his hips uselessly against the bars as Castiel had at least six of his seven and a half inches crammed to the back of Dean’s throat.

Castiel put his hands through the bars and held Dean’s hair, using the grip to fuck himself into Dean’s face. The bars were a menace—a constant reminder that there was something separating them, that Castiel wasn’t as deep as he could be. And Dean couldn’t even imagine taking in more. His lips were stretched wide and his jaw ached and spit and precome drooled out of his mouth and down his chin. And Castiel was relentless. His usual sweet nothings turned into growling profanities. And Dean had never been harder in his life, never felt his body so desperate for release—his or Castiel’s, he didn’t care.

Castiel smashed Dean’s face against the bars and held him still as he came hot and deep in Dean’s throat. Dean squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath so the jizz wouldn’t trickle down the wrong pipe. He felt his gag reflex trying to activate, but he relaxed his throat and fought through it. At last, with a sated moan, Castiel pulled back, his cock slipping easily from between Dean’s numb lips. Dean gasped in a breath and leaned against the bars, but he hadn’t let go yet with his hands.

“Fuck me,” Castiel mumbled. “Never had it so good as you, baby boy.”

Dean smiled at the compliment and tried not to think about his aching cock.

“Take it out, little cowboy. Let me see what you got.”

Dean peeled his hands off the bars, wincing when his fingers protested the movement after being clenched so tightly for so long. He flexed them a bit to get the blood flowing again and then he hurried to open his fly lest Castiel think he was stalling. He pulled his cock out unable to help feeling a little proud of the fact that he was no slouch in this department either. Castiel sighed and leaned against the bars.

“Show me, sweet boy. Show me how you do it when you’re alone and thinking about me.”

Dean made a fist and used his hips to fuck in and out of it. His other hand pulled and tugged at his balls just the right side of pain. He bit his lip and looked up at Castiel. This was what he’d wanted: to have Castiel see what he did to him, how hard he made him, and how desperate he was for this connection. The reality exceeded the fantasy. Castiel’s eyes were dark and focused unwaveringly on his groin. He licked his lips and squeezed the bars tightly.

“That’s it, that’s it. Good boy. Now over the head. Yeah, smear that precome down the shaft, get it nice and wet. Now a little tighter, baby. Easy, easy, don’t make it hurt. There you go. Now faster, a little more. So, good. You’re perfect, do you know that? Now get ready, feel it build deep in your balls—yeah, do that again—harder, baby. Fuck, I love the sounds you make.”

Peripherally Dean saw Castiel move and then the man was at the bars, kneeling in front of him. He reached through and forced Dean’s dick to angle downwards.

“Come, baby boy. Come for me.”

Dean blacked out—for just a moment—but there was definitely some time missing between when the intense orgasm hit and now as he slumped against the bars, chest heaving, whimpering through the aftershocks that still rolled through his body.

Castiel was petting his hair and murmuring nonsense to him, but he only let him wallow for a few moments before giving a sharp tug at his hair.

“Come on now. Up. Get your clothes back on. You’ve been in here too long as it is.”

Dean obeyed in a daze, his legs still shaky from the intensity of their activities. Once he was more or less put back together, he walked to the bars and took the dinner tray from Castiel’s hands, but he kept his eyes down and he could feel the flush on his cheeks.

Castiel laughed. “Look at you. Not two minutes ago you had the sluttiest moans coming out of your mouth and now you’re blushing like a virgin.” Dean’s cheeks burned hotter. “Fucking perfect. Don’t forget this,” he added before Dean could turn away.

He tilted his cup carefully as he pushed it through the slot. It was sealed when Dean picked it up for dinner so it could lie flat on the tray when passing through the slot. Castiel was always good about finishing his beverage so that the cup could lie flat on its way back out since it was just a little too big around at the top to squeeze through the bars. Tonight though there was about an inch of milk left in the bottom. And then Dean suddenly realized there wasn’t just milk in the cup. He hadn’t thought to wonder what Castiel had done with his jizz—he’d been too blissed out.

“Jesus,” Dean muttered embarrassedly and Castiel’s laughter followed him out the door. 

***

Dean sat on the floor with his back against the concrete wall. His feet easily touched the opposite wall, even with his knees bent. He was watching Castiel eat because he’d been told not to leave. The officers’ room was always empty this time of night, so no one would be wondering where he was or worried that he hadn’t returned from delivering a prisoner his meal in solitary.

They weren’t talking, but that was okay because Dean was absorbed with watching Castiel’s fingers hold his fork and the way his jaw line moved when he chewed. Castiel noticed after a moment and quirked a smile on one side of his mouth.

“Tell me about your mother,” he said in an Austrian accent.

Dean laughed. Castiel raised an eyebrow at him. Oh. He was being serious.

“Um, well, she’s…she’s what you’d expect of a good Christian Texan woman from an affluent family.”

Castiel snorted. “Is that meant to be flattering?”

“I guess it depends on what you like. She’s gentle and generous and charitable. She’s polite and lives for etiquette.” Dean smiled fondly. “But she can turn into a raging, spitting wild cat if someone messes with her babies.”

“And your father?”

Dean looked at his hands. He did not want to discuss his father with a man who made him commit such depraved acts. _Makes you?_ Dean’s subconscious chided cruelly.

“He’s a great man.”

“Ooo, not just a good man, but a _great_ man.”

Dean turned a hard look on Castiel. “He is a great man.”

“Mm. Loves God, his country, and his mama, I’m sure.”

“Fuck you. You don’t know him.”

Castiel stopped eating and put his tray aside. Dean tried to hide his squirm.

“Don’t I?” Castiel asked. “Do _you_ know him?”

“Of course I—”

“Take off your clothes, Dean.”

Dean’s jaw dropped, and then he scoffed harshly. “No way! Are you joking? I mean, there’s no way I could possibly explain what was going on in here if we got walked in on any other time, but I can’t just get naked and stand around when anyone could come in here at any time.”

Castiel stood up and approached the cell door. And even though Castiel was the one trapped in a cage, Dean felt fearful for his life.

“Take off your clothes, Dean.”

Dean shivered at Castiel’s cold, unhappy expression. He used the wall for support as he got his feet under him and began unbuttoning his shirt. It was hard to push the small buttons through the holes with the way his fingers were trembling, but he managed to make slow progress.

“Come on, Dean, the longer you take the more likely someone will come looking for you.”

That got Dean’s hands working again. He pulled the button down shirt off his shoulders, carefully placing it on the floor so he didn’t break the radio attached to the shoulder. Then he stripped off the undershirt. He hooked a toe onto the back of a heel and worked his boots off as he undid his pants. He pushed the pants and his briefs off in one go, just to get it over with and then kicked the items into the corner with his shirts. Lastly he pulled off his socks and balled them up before tossing them into the corner. He stood beneath Castiel’s scrutiny and refrained from covering his groin with his hands, but just barely.

“Not very familiar with strip teases are you?” Castiel said with disappointment.

Dean rolled his eyes and didn’t dignify that with a response. Castiel’s face grew serious again as his eyes swept over his body.

“Get on the floor,” he said.

Dean sat down gingerly on the cold concrete facing Castiel.

“Put your feet in the corners.”

Dean hesitated for a just a moment. The cell was only four feet wide, so he could manage it, but it would leave him spread pretty wide. He moved his legs before Castiel had to repeat himself. Once his feet were in position Castiel gave the command, “Lie back.”

Dean huffed out a miserable breath, but lay back on the floor trying mostly unsuccessfully to find a comfortable spot on the hard, unforgiving concrete.

“Now scoot your ass up to the bars.”

Dean lifted his head. Castiel stood at the bars with his arms crossed over his chest. Dean thought about protesting—he wasn’t sure he could actually get himself into that position, but he figured in for a penny in for a pound. He carefully worked himself forward letting his knees fall to the side in order to get as much flexibility out of his body as possible. He couldn’t quite get all the way to the bars, but he was as close as he was able to still lie more or less comfortably, but his legs were splayed wide open and he was completely exposed to Castiel. He was pretty sure that was exactly how Castiel liked him.

“Now, tell me about your father again.”

“What?!” Dean raised his head and almost snapped his legs shut, but Castiel’s expression was about serious as he’d ever seen him—which was saying something. “N—why?”

“I’m curious why you think he’s so great. Tell me, what kinds of things did he used to say about people like you?”

Dean’s brow creased in confusion. “He—he always said he was proud of me. But, he didn’t baby me. He didn’t believe in all kids get a ‘participation trophy.’ He felt that people had to earn their rewards in life and that applied to his children. He was tough on me, but it was only to make me stronger. To make me better.”

“I see. I guess your father could treat you that way because he didn’t know the real you though, did he?”

Dean snapped his mouth shut and lowered his head to the ground. It was starting to strain his muscles to keep it up…and he didn’t want to look at Castiel.

“Who I am—is a fuck load more than just my sexuality.”

“That’s true. That’s very true. But would any of that have mattered if he had known about that one tiny little thing?”

Dean chewed on the inside of his lip and turned his head away. He loved his father. He was a good man who loved his family and took care of them and always made time for his children even though he was a busy and important person at work and in their community. But Dean had always known that his father couldn’t find out about his occasional attraction to boys. It wouldn’t matter if he also liked girls and wanted to date them and have sex with them—if he admitted to even having a passing thought about another guy he would be a faggot. A wimpy fairy that liked shoe shopping and only watched football to see the players in their tights pants.

“Nothing to say, Dean?”

“Alright, fine. My father is a homophobic asshole who wouldn’t even let me drink out of a straw as a kid because it might look like I was sucking a dick!”

Dean turned his head and opened his eyes to glare at Castiel, but then felt his face slacken in surprise. Castiel had his cock out and was stroking it slowly in one hand. Dean became even more aware of his vulnerable position and knew he was blushing from the tips of his ears down onto his chest.

“That’s not fair, is it, Dean?”

Dean clenched his hands into fists at his sides. “Life isn’t fair. I’m sure there are a lot of people who’ve crossed your path who have learned that lesson.”

Castiel ignored the jab and kept up his steady pace with his hand. “How did you feel when you would look at a man and feel attracted to him?”

Dean closed his eyes. He didn’t want to do this.

“Answer the question, Dean,” Castiel said lowly, darkly.

“It felt…wrong,” he admitted.

“How did you feel when you felt aroused by a man?”

Dean opened his mouth and Castiel said, “Look at me.”

Dean opened his eyes and watched Castiel look down on him, coldness—but no judgment—in his eyes even though he was spread before him like a desperate whore. His hand still slid over his beautiful cock.

“_I_ felt wrong. I felt bad.”

“Why?”

“Because. Real men—real men don’t—”

“Don’t what?”

“They don’t cry. And they don’t complain about having their feelings hurt over not being allowed to join drama club. And they don’t think about another guy’s cock!”

Castiel’s hand sped up just a little. “What do real men do?” he asked evenly.

“They stay strong when bad things happen. They protect their family. They provide for their family. They don’t follow their whore of a girlfriend across the country and let a psychotic hit man come all over him!”

“So, you think you’re not a real man, Dean?”

“I’m not! I’m a fucking fag who lets you use me like a come dumpster because that’s what faggots do! We’re just depraved, horny sluts who can’t ever get enough so we take it from whoever is willing to bend us over and give it to us!”

“Not a real man then,” Castiel mused, cockhead flushed red as it disappeared and reappeared under his hand. Dean almost cried because the sight of it made his dick stir—only confirming his self-deprecating accusations. “Are you a good man, though?”

“How can I be?” he asked on a choked off sob.

“Do you love your family, Dean?”

“Yes.”

“Would you do anything for them?”

“Yes.”

“Give them all your money if they needed it?”

“Of course.”

“So, you would protect them and provide for them. Stay strong for them if they needed you?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Dean moaned; he wanted this to stop.

“Well, then doesn’t that make you a real man? A good man who would do his duty to his family?”

“N-no…”

“Why not?”

“Because…I’m not…I’m not…”

Dean unclenched his hands and let the tears he’d been trying to hold back slide from his eyes.

“I’m not bad,” he whispered.

“What was that, baby?”

Dean felt some of the tightness loosen in his chest at the endearment.

“I’m not bad. I’ve never hurt anybody. I always work hard. I always follow the rules.”

“You are very obedient, sweet boy.”

Dean bit his lip and shifted his pelvis at Castiel’s words. “I am. I do what I’m told. Because I’m—”

“You’re what, baby boy? What are you?”

“I’m good,” Dean moaned softly, cock twitching against his thigh.

“That’s right, pretty. And what are you to me?”

“Mm,” Dean bit off a moan and lifted his hips. “I’m…”

“Yeah, baby, say it.”

“I’m perfect. I’m perfect for you.”

“That’s right. The way you obey me. The way you try so hard to please me. The way you give everything for me. You’re good, my sweet baby boy. You’re so good.”

Dean gasped and continued to buck his hips up, staring at Castiel as the words poured from his mouth—completely true, completely honest. His hand worked faster over his cock and gripped one of the bars with his free hand.

“I don’t deserve you, baby. You’re much too good for me.”

“N-no!” Dean gasped clawing his thighs desperately. “Don’t say that!”

A pleased, possessive smile curled one side of Castiel’s mouth.

“You’re fucking perfect, Dean. And you’re mine. You know that, don’t you?”

Dean nodded, frantic with the hot arousal dancing over his skin.

“Y-y—” Dean swallowed and tried again. “I’m yours.”

Castiel bared his teeth in a feral grin as he shoved his cock through the bars and came in long, scalding ribbons over Dean’s chest and stomach, his abdomen and thighs—he even felt a drop catch on his chin. Dean slapped his hands flat against the floor, pitching his hips up—and let out several broken cries as he lost all control and an orgasm flooded his senses.

Dean sucked in a shaky breath and stared at the bleak concrete ceiling overhead. His legs ached from being spread unnaturally wide. He could feel semen growing cold and sticky on his torso. Dried tear tracks ran from the corners of his eyes over his temples. He could tell that his skin was flushed, his nose was running, and his back was stiff and rapidly approaching sore.

He hadn't felt so free and clean and..._good_...since he had been a child. A child unaware of sex and attraction and the seemingly baseless hatred some people could have for him just because he was attracted to people they didn't approve of. It felt good to have someone see him for what he was and still accept him—it made him feel safe.

"Dean."

And then it was gone.

Dean started when Castiel grasped his leg.

"Dean, get up, hurry. You've been here too long. Come on now."

Dean winced as he drew his legs together and grunted as every muscle in his body let him know he had been clenched tighter than the asshole on a priest in a whorehouse.

"Little faster there, Boss," Castiel said dryly.

Dean immediately got to his feet and turned his back on Castiel. The illusion was completely shattered now. Castiel had never called him "Boss" while they'd been—whatever it was they did together. He'd always allowed Dean to maintain that delusion that he had some speck of control. Now he was just mocking him. Flaunting the power he had over him—and Dean couldn't understand why he gave him that power. Because Castiel had nothing without Dean's consent to the proceedings. So why was he letting himself be degraded and used like this? For a fleeting ten seconds of feeling like someone accepted him for who he was including all his grotesque flaws?

Dean shook his head with a bitter laugh as he tucked his shirt into his pants and then zipped them.

"What is it?" Castiel asked.

Dean turned as he was buckling his belt. Castiel stood at the bars, holding the dinner tray, and looking completely put together and detached.

"What is what?" Dean asked, pretending he needed to look at his belt to finish buckling it.

"What was that laugh?"

Dean walked over and grasped the tray, but Castiel held onto his end. Dean looked up and met his eyes. He shrugged and gave a slight shake of his head.

"What about this whole thing isn't just a funny joke?" Dean asked with a hard edge to his voice.

"I told you, I don't lie. You are good for—"

"No," Dean cut him off. "We're out of that now. You ended it already."

Castiel's eyes hardened, but he released the tray. Then he smiled so pleasantly it was disturbing.

"Whatever you say, Boss. You're the one in charge."

Dean took the tray and turned, trying not to roll his eyes. That's it. He was done with this bullshit. If Castiel ever wound up in solitary again, he was not bringing him any of his meals. Dean _was_ the one in charge. He had control over his actions. At least he did when he wasn't around Castiel, so all he had to do was stay away from him. And this time he knew he could do it. That asshole had used his fears against him. He had figured out Dean's vulnerabilities and had made him feel like he gave a shit or two about him. The man was good; he was very good. And Dean had, just for a moment, fallen for it. But now, away from Castiel, he was clearheaded and could see it for what it was. Dean was Castiel's entertainment. He enjoyed seeing how far down he could drag Dean into the mud. And today he had gotten him about as low as possible.

Michelson seemed to notice something was off with him the rest of their shift together, but he didn't comment. And when Dean begged off going out for beers, he didn't put up more than a token protest. Dean knew he was going to have to be more careful. It wouldn't take much for them to figure out he got weird and distant on the nights he visited Castiel in solitary. Not that it would matter anymore because he was not going to go in there ever again. It may be the coward's way of handling the situation, rather than refusing to participate in Castiel's games anymore by seeing him in person and resisting him. Dean wasn't sure he _could_ resist him. So, just not putting himself in the position where he had to try was the best solution.

He was so ready to enact this plan; to put distance between them both physically and psychologically. He wanted to wash Castiel's influence away—and he could so both literally and symbolically. Dean stood in his bathroom, outside the running shower. All he had to do was step in and he could rinse Castiel's dried come from his body. Let it run down the drain and leave him clean and free.

Dean turned the water off and shuffled back into his bedroom. He fell onto the bed and curled up, feeling the tight, itchy pull on his skin. He turned his face into his pillow and tried to not remember the sound of Castiel's voice praising him. He tried not to remember Castiel's eyes looking down on him with satisfaction and appreciation. It was all an act, just a game. He couldn't let himself believe what he felt around Castiel was anything other than a temporary high. It wasn't real.

It wasn't real.

***

The next morning Dean scrubbed his skin red and raw, almost drawing blood in some places. He could barely look himself in the mirror with the knowledge that he had slept so deeply and so well, peacefully, because of feeling like a part of Castiel was with him. It had to stop and he had to get back to himself.

It was easy to enact his ignore Castiel fucking Novak plan when the convict was back in general population. He blended in amongst the other sociopaths and degenerates and Dean gave him no more than a fleeting thought. During work. At home, alone in his apartment at night, he was going through lube and Kleenex like he owned stock in them. But that was okay. Because it was a fantasy. And fantasies never hurt anyone. As long as it didn't stray into reality, he was fine. And he even enjoyed it. Having the memory of Castiel's voice in his ear while he jerked off certainly made the sessions more enjoyable. And if he popped a chubby during lunch service one day when Castiel said to Melvin how well Dean had picked up being a corrections officer and praised him for his quick learning, well that was something he could work on.

It had been nearly a month with Castiel being on his best behavior, keeping himself out of solitary, when he paused by Dean during dinner service. He had his tray in his hands and Dean noticed he'd managed to talk the servers into giving him two cups of lime Jell-O again.

"Move along, Novak, find your seat," Dean said, like he would say to any other inmate.

"There's no one I want to sit next to though. Dinner just isn't fun in here."

Dean gave him a bland look. He was not amused.

"Well, it is more sanitary."

Castiel laughed, and then seemed surprised by it. Dean felt an inane sense of pride at the thought that he'd managed to pull a real laugh out of the man.

"Even so, I'm feeling clumsy today. I might spill my tray all over some poor unsuspecting guard. Maybe Hicks. Little fucker makes my skin crawl."

Dean turned an incredulous look on the psychopath. "Hicks makes _your_ skin crawl? That's rich."

Castiel shrugged a shoulder.

"Well, you go right ahead and do what you need to do, but I won't let him talk me into taking over his duties."

"Yeah, okay," Castiel said in an annoying tone that basically said what a load of crap he thought that was.

"I mean it, Ca—Novak. And what made you decide you needed to do it now anyway? You on some sort of monthly cycle that sends you into heat?"

He turned to Castiel with a smirk, and then quickly dropped the look when he caught sight of the murderous look the killer was giving him. He cleared his throat and looked away.

"I was waiting for the hole to clear out. Don't want any pervy eavesdroppers, do we?"

Dean shifted his stance. Tonight was Biggs' last night in the hole, and then the wing would be empty. Unless some inmate did something stupid in the interim. Like dumping his tray all over Hicks. Dean turned to look at Castiel with as much cool indifference as he could muster.

"Take a seat, Novak."

For one terrible moment Dean thought Castiel was going to defy him. Maybe even demand he get down on his knees in apology. But before Castiel revealed what his response would be, shouting and a loud crash erupted from the center of the lunch room. Dean turned and saw two rival gang members grappling in the middle of the room. Most of the other inmates were watching and goading them on, but a couple were looking like they were about to join in the fray. This absolutely couldn't escalate into a full blown riot.

Dean rushed toward the fight and Michelson, Hicks, and Drake were closing in with him. There was a violent struggle as the guards tried to separate and subdue the inmates. There was blood on the floor; one of them must have a shiv of some kind. Dean got a hold of the arm of one of the instigators and wrenched it behind his back. Something hit the back of his leg and he went down on his knee, losing his grip on the inmate struggling against him. The man turned around and backhanded him hard across the face. Dean fell back onto his hands and looked up as Gonzalez raised the sharpened end of a toothbrush over his head. Dean struggled to move out of the way, but felt himself blocked and trapped by the legs of the ring of spectators. Gonzalez started to bring the shiv down and then the edge of a dinner tray caught him under the jaw in the soft, vulnerable flesh. The room immediately went silent as Gonzalez fell to the floor, unmoving. It was clear that his jaw had been dislocated if not broken and he was out cold.

Castiel stood partway in front of Dean, the tray held loosely in one hand. He glanced back over his shoulder at Dean and he looked up into his perfectly calm, blue eyes. Castiel Novak had just saved his life. Again.

The doors to the cafeteria burst open as a dozen guards poured into the room shouting orders and circling the inmates. All the prisoners began dropping to their knees and putting their hands behind their heads. Castiel was one of the last ones to do so, but he complied with orders and got on his knees. Dean stared at him for a few long moments and then forced himself to his feet.

"Here! Over here! We need the doctor and a stretcher!" 

***

Dean sat on the examining table in the prison's infirmary as Dr. Myles cleaned the wound on his cheekbone. Gonzalez had hit him so hard he'd split the skin. Gonzalez himself hadn't faired so well. After setting his jaw and fifteen minutes of attempting to wake him, he'd been sent under heavy guard to the closest hospital. There was a knock on the open door to the room, and Melvin poked his head in.

"Hey, Dean, how are you feeling?"

"I'm okay. I mean, my face hurts. But, at least I'm not getting a knife wound stitched up."

"Yeah," Melvin said thoughtfully. "Yeah, that is a good thing."

Dean winced when the doctor taped a bandage over the cut; the skin around the cut was really tender and he knew he was going to have a huge bruise on his cheek. He wouldn't be able to Skype call his parents for a week at least otherwise his mother might have a meltdown and demand he come home immediately. The doctor patted his shoulder and left to go check on the other inmates who had received minor injuries.

Dean looked up at where Melvin still stood in the infirmary door. "What's up, Melvin? Is something wrong?"

"No, no. Well, yes. I'm sorry you were put in that position. We've gotten complacent with our bunk checks. That shiv never should have—"

"Hey, Melvin, it's okay. I mean, no matter how thorough or careful we are, shit still happens."

"I know. But, Dean, you were on your own over there. You should be in the hospital possibly dying from a fatal stab wound."

Dean raised a concerned eyebrow. "O...kay?"

"No, I mean, I don't wish that you were. I'm grateful that you're not. But no one else was near you. Not one of _us_ anyway. These guys...these criminals...they don't step in on our behalf."

"Oh," Dean said, trying to sound as neutral as possible. "I wonder what got into Novak then?"

"Probably trying to curry favor. He takes advantage of every opportunity he can."

"I'm sure he does," Dean muttered. "So, what's going to happen to him? Will he get in trouble for hurting Gonzalez? Will he get charged?"

Melvin shrugged. "We don't know what to with him right now. He's in the hole for now."

"Why? Are you worried Gonzalez's crew will try to take revenge?"

"Well, there's that. But mostly we're keeping him isolated in case _he_ decides to go after the rest of Gonzalez's crew."

Dean raised his eyebrows. Oh, yeah. Castiel was the dangerous one.

"And if Gonzalez wakes up and gets sent back here, there's no way we can let them reside in the same cell block. Even if we make sure to keep them on separate meal and exercise schedules. I guess we can keep Novak in solitary permanently, which would probably solve a lot of problems, but that's not what his sentence is. And it's hard to justify indefinite solitary unless his crime was considered to be worthy of such a harsh punishment. I think our best bet is to just make a case for him to be sent to federal prison. It'll make all our lives easier to be rid of him."

Dean nodded but didn't otherwise respond. It _would_ be easier if Castiel was sent away. Then he would definitely be able to just let all of this go and forget about it.

Melvin pulled him out of his thoughts with a pat on the shoulder. "It's okay, Winchester. You did good today. I'm proud of you for keeping your head when the fight broke out."

Dean smiled weakly. "Thanks, Melvin."

"You need tomorrow off?"

Dean shook his head. "Nah. I'm fine."

"Okay then. Get some rest tonight."

"Will do."

Dean watched Melvin leave and then dropped his head. It had felt good when his boss had praised him, congratulated him on a job well done. But it wasn't the same. Dean closed his eyes and exhaled wearily. It wasn't the same as when Castiel told him he was good in and of himself. Dean wondered if Castiel really believed that. He had to find out before he was gone from his life permanently. 

***

The very next morning, Dean relieved Hicks of his breakfast service to the solitary confinement wing and received a very uncomfortable hug for his troubles. He didn't even allow himself the time to feel nervous or to get anxious. He walked from the kitchen to the hole and through the door with no hesitation. If the keys shook a little bit as he opened the door to Castiel's cell that was just because he was out of practice with balancing the tray in one hand.

_Sure,_ he patronized himself as he got the door open with a little laugh.

"Laughing again?"

Dean started at Castiel's question. He was even more surprised to see the man not only standing at the bars, but gripping two of them in his hands. Unless he was going crazy, Dean would swear Castiel looked a little anxious.

"Just laughing at myself," Dean replied.

He carried the tray over to the slot, but Castiel made no move to take it. He waited a few moments, but Castiel just kept staring at him. He repressed a sigh and sat the tray on the floor. When he stood back up Castiel was twisting his hands on the bars.

"What have they decided to do with me?" he asked straight off the bat.

Dean shrugged a shoulder. "It depends on what happens with Gonzalez. He's in a coma right now."

"That wasn't my intention."

"No?" Dean asked skeptically.

"My intention was to kill him."

Dean felt a chill pass through him and what little humor he had been feeling disappeared.

"Castiel..."

"He was going to hurt you, Dean."

Castiel reached out through the bars and he instinctively took a step back. Castiel left his arm outstretched, stuck at the elbow, and Dean told himself to just ask what he needed to ask and leave. He could still get out of this with some sort of dignity. Now _that_ was a real laugh.

Dean felt himself inching closer, he bit his lip and told himself to stop, but before he knew it he felt Castiel's nails picking at the tape holding the bandage over his cheek. Castiel peeled it off carefully and dropped the gauze to the floor. Then he very gently trailed his fingertips over the cut and bruise. It was a barely there touch, but his skin was so tender he couldn't stop himself from reacting to it a little bit. Castiel's other hand slipped through the bars and grabbed his wrist, pulling him flush against the cell door.

"I don't like seeing you with bruises I didn't put on you, boy. You need to be more careful around such dangerous criminals."

Dean scoffed and met his eye. "Well, maybe you shouldn't teach me to be so submissive to them."

Castiel smiled and touched his cheek again. "I'm not dangerous, baby boy. Not to you."

"You're the most dangerous of all, you—"

Dean's insult was cut off when Castiel pushed two fingers into his mouth. Dean closed his eyes and sucked them down, desperately happy to taste the salt of Castiel's skin again. He moaned around the digits when he felt a hand on his groin, massaging and working him to an erection. He knew there was something he was supposed to be doing, or maybe not doing, but his brain was on standby mode.

"That's it, pretty, get 'em nice and wet."

Dean took hold of Castiel's wrist and lessened the suction and increased the licking, obeying Castiel's order to get his fingers completely slick and wet. Castiel's other hand was busy opening Dean's fly and he didn't reprimand him when Dean helped the process along. When his pants were open and loose, Castiel plunged a hand in, under his underwear, and gripped his cock. Dean let out a startled shout and almost bit down on Castiel's fingers. He'd never felt Castiel's bare hand on him before. It was hot and callused and felt divine as it pulled him out and jacked him slowly.

Then Castiel pulled back both hands and said, "Lower your pants and underwear and turned around."

Dean stared at him a little stupefied, but he knew what he was telling him to do. And he knew what Castiel was going to do to him.

"Castiel..."

"Do it, Dean."

"Do you mean it? Do you mean any of it?"

Dean knew he sounded pathetic, and Castiel couldn't be bothered to care as he pulled on his wrist, getting him to start to turn. Dean allowed himself to be pulled, and then turned around as he lowered his pants and underwear to the backs of his thighs. He gasped when he felt one of Castiel's hands grab his hips and the other push on his back to make him bend forward. Dean closed his eyes. Why wasn't he stopping this? He felt Castiel's wet fingers circle his entrance and he sucked in a sharp breath at the touch—he'd never even done this to himself. Castiel didn't have time to waste on foreplay though. He pushed one finger in and then the second and Dean barely kept in his cry of pain. Castiel's grip on his hip was bruising tight and he worked his fingers fast and hard, scissoring them to spread Dean open.

"Good boy," whispered Castiel, his fingers flexing and then tightening on Dean's hip. "You're taking this so well. It's your first time, right?"

Dean nodded and reached a hand back to grip the bars behind him.

Castiel moaned softly. "I'm your first, baby boy? You're all mine?"

Dean nodded again and then shouted when Castiel shoved his fingers violently inside him.

"Say it," Castiel ordered.

"Y-yours, Castiel. No one but you." He heard Castiel spit behind him. "Only one. Just—"

Dean keened when Castiel forced a third finger into him. He pushed back against the bars and Castiel laughed as he buried his fingers deeper.

"Fuck, sweet boy, you know what you want, don't you?"

Dean opened his mouth but only a moan came out. He couldn't form any coherent thoughts let alone words. Not with Castiel's long, slender fingers filling him, spreading him. It was pain and pleasure and it was overtaking all his senses. The only thing he was aware of was where his body was connected with Castiel's. Then Castiel pulled away. Dean started to protest, but Castiel hushed him.

"Shh, baby, shh. You think I'm going to leave you like that? I take care of you, you know that."

He heard Castiel spit again and then the sound of flesh rapidly stroking flesh. A moment later the large, blunt head of Castiel's cock prodded his entrance. Dean tensed with both longing and trepidation.

"Hey now, baby, easy, easy." Castiel rubbed his lower back soothingly. "It's gonna hurt if you tense up on me."

Dean nodded and tried to get his body to relax, but it wasn't really working.

"Hey, Dean," Castiel said coyly, lightly thrusting against his hole with his cockhead. "You're my good boy, right?"

Dean moaned and felt his dick pulsate at the words, precome spurting out of him.

"Yeah, you are. Always so good for me. You want me, don't you, baby?"

Dean gasped in another breath but managed to relax just a bit.

"Perfect, that's it, Dean," Castiel said as he pushed in. "Oh, this is it, that's fucking perfect, my good, sweet boy."

Dean actually felt himself relaxing even more despite feeling Castiel's thick, throbbing cock push into him, stretching him and filling him—filling an emptiness he hadn't known was there. Dean gripped the bar behind him tighter as he felt the burn of their nearly dry skin pulling on each other. But it felt good...it felt real. And then too soon Castiel was sliding back out. He pushed back in again and the movement was easier this time, but again, it didn't fill him completely. Castiel put both hands on Dean hips and thrust into his clenching heat again and again, but Dean was nearly crying with deprivation. The bars were in the way. Castiel could only get about four inches in before they were blocked and he had to pull out. It was driving Dean insane—that promise of being filled by Castiel's fat cock given to him swift and hard with each thrust of Castiel's hips, and then taken away when he was forced to pull back, leaving Dean bereft. It wasn't enough. It was killing him.

"Castiel!" Dean sobbed. "Please!"

"Oh, fuck, baby, you feel so good. You're taking me so well. I just wish I could really get in you. Would you like that? Feel all of me stuffing you full?"

"Yes! Castiel, please, stop!"

"What?"

"Stop!"

Castiel stilled his movements, his hands tightening painfully on Dean's hips.

"You don't want me, boy?"

"No, I do, I do." Dean drew in a shaky breath. "But I can't—not like this. It's not enough. You're not—it's not enough, Cas...tiel." Dean hung his head, body quivering with need and disappointment.

"Stand up."

Dean straightened and Castiel pulled him close, slipping in another scant inch, but nowhere near filling him up. Dean still squirmed with the intrusion, his dick bouncing happily in front of him, wanting more. Castiel put a hand to Dean throat.

"You can have me, sweet boy. You can have all of me."

"How? Sign up for conjugal visits? Wait fifteen years?"

"You can have me now."

Dean heard the keys at his waist rattle when Castiel flicked them. He started at the noise. He wasn't worried about Castiel taking them off his belt, if he was going to do that he had had plenty of opportunities already. Besides, the keys on his belt couldn't unlock the cell door. Only the electronic mechanism by the metal door could do that.

Dean shook his head. "No. No, I'm crazy and I'm desperate and I'm twisted, but I'm not stupid."

"You think I would hurt you, baby boy?"

It was on the tip of Dean's tongue to answer, but he hesitated. Castiel jerked him back and slid impossibly a little deeper in him. Dean cried out and then grunted in frustration. He could feel him inside, hot and hard and leaking, marking him as truly his. But he couldn't get what he really wanted, what he needed—not like this.

"Castiel..." Dean whispered weakly.

"Dean. Do it. Now."

Dean choked back a sob and leaned forward, but didn't move to obey the order.

"Now, Dean!"

Dean stepped forward and nearly died when he felt Castiel slip free. All he wanted to do was back up and force him back in. But he could have something better. All he had to do was...

Dean crossed the small distance to the metal door. He leaned against the frame, hand on the electronic lock. He didn't dare look back at Castiel. Castiel stayed quiet. Dean clenched his hand at his side and put his forehead to the wall. What was he doing? Was he really about to take away the only barrier between himself and a dangerous psychopath that was borderline obsessed with him?

His eyes flew open when he heard the grating sound of the bars retracting into the wall. He looked at his right hand. His fingers had depressed the button that activated the lock. He froze, unable to turn around. And then a hand on his shoulder spun him until he locked eyes with Castiel Novak aka the Russian mafia's number one hit man. It wasn't like he'd never been face to face with the man before without bars between them, but they'd never faced each other when his treacherous blue eyes were dark with lust and possession.

"Castiel..."

Castiel reached forward and slammed the metal door closed. Then he pushed down on Dean's pants and underwear, dipping enough to force one of Dean's legs up so that the garments slipped over one foot. Then with a strength that was hidden by the litheness of his body, Castiel hoisted him, lined up their bodies again, and plunged all the way in.

Dean howled at the intrusion and Castiel let him scream. It was too much, too big, and with not enough saliva to ease the way. Dean moaned and writhed in his grasp, but Castiel held firm and made sure he was completely balls deep in Dean's ass.

"That what you wanted, Dean? Is this what you need?"

Dean nodded, tears falling from his fluttering lashes. "Yes. You."

Castiel growled at that answer. "Fuck, baby boy, you really are mine, aren't you? Don't worry. I'll take care of you. I'll always take care of you."

Castiel began to thrust up into him, using the door to hold most of Dean's weight, and his thighs to drill him fast, hard, deep. So deep inside of him—Dean felt nothing but the high of being filled, owned, possessed. His body ached with the sweetness of his surrender and he felt like he was floating, only tied to reality by the brutal pounding of his ass and prostate, the bite of Castiel's nails under his thighs, the sharp sting of Castiel's teeth at his throat.

Dean panted Castiel's name on every breath, spiraling higher and higher, and then Castiel pressed forward, catching Dean's dick between their bodies. There were a few more moments of clarity as Castiel increased his pace to a desperate frenzy, and then Dean screamed again as he came—shooting warm come all over his and Castiel's uniforms. He cried out again as a second wave hit him when he felt Castiel flood his insides. He put his hands in Castiel's hair and worked his hips to feel it hot and slick inside of him.

"D-Dean..."

Castiel broke off and Dean was surprised to hear him out of breath.

"That good, huh?" Dean heard himself murmur, like he had a death wish. And maybe he did.

Castiel took his face in his hands and Dean winced as his sore cheek was squeezed much too tightly. But he quickly forgot about the pain as he blinked into Castiel's wild eyes. Oh fuck. He was probably about to die.

Castiel surged forward and Dean's noise of alarm was muffled by Castiel's lips. Dean didn't even question it, just tightened his grip in Castiel's hair and opened his mouth, kissing him as best he could in his blissed out state. Castiel's tongue fucked his mouth as ruthlessly as his dick had taken Dean's virginity. Dean sucked at it, pulling it in deeper and not wanting Castiel to ever pull away. He thought he might get his wish as he started to get dizzy from an acute lack of oxygen, but then Castiel pulled back. He slid his soft member out of Dean's body and slowly lowered his legs. Dean was grateful the door was behind him because otherwise he was pretty certain he would have fallen on his ass.

"Dean, my sweet, pretty boy. You were so good for me."

Dean breathed in deeply as he basked in the praise. He leaned his head back to look at Castiel. The man pulled him by the elbow, made him stand up straight, and step away from the door. Castiel tilted his head to the side as he brushed his knuckles over Dean's uninjured cheek.

"I know I promised I would never hurt you, baby, but I've got to make this believable."

Dean's brow creased in confusion and he parted his lips to ask a question. And the last thing he saw was Castiel's fist.

***

Dean groaned and struggled against the pull of unconsciousness. His head hurt, his ass hurt, and he knew there was a good reason for him not to try to wake up.

"Officer Winchester, thank goodness. Hey, Dean, come on now, don't let it pull you back under."

Dean opened his eyes and was confused by the green glow of fluorescent lights and white drop tile ceiling above him. He turned his head, wincing as his neck protested the movement, and saw Dr. Myles standing beside him. That was the piece of the puzzle he needed to put it all together. He was in the prison infirmary in one of the beds reserved for the officers in case one of them was injured on the job. It was why the walls and ceilings weren't made out of concrete and there were no bars on the windows.

"Dr. Myles, what happened?" Dean croaked.

"Well, that's what a lot of people would like to ask you. But first, follow my finger."

Dean tracked Dr. Myles' finger with his eyes. Then the doctor flashed a penlight in his eyes.

"Well, I don't think you have a concussion, but you're going to have to get a CAT scan at the hospital before I'll clear you for duty again."

"Do I still have a job?" Dean asked, still with a bad case of cottonmouth.

"I don't see why you wouldn't. Though I'm not going to lie. There will be a lot of questions about how Novak got the drop on you." Dean's heart leapt to his throat. "And escaped." Then it plummeted right back to his stomach and he felt so nauseated he was certain he was going to vomit.

Dean leaned over the bed and Dr. Myles got him a bedpan just in time so he didn't puke all over the floor. Dr. Myles rubbed his back through the thin cotton of his hospital gown until he was finished and then helped him lay back in the bed.

"Easy, Dean, it's okay. They're out looking for him now. They'll get him. He can't have that much of a head start on them. And this isn't your fault."

Dean's panic took a little breather at those words. It wasn't his fault? He was definitely missing some information. Dr. Myles handed him a glass of water to rinse out his mouth.

"Um, the warden wanted to talk with you as soon as you woke up. But, I don't have to tell him for another couple of hours if you need some time to rest."

"What time is it?"

"It's almost noon."

"Of the same day?"

"Yes."

Dean nodded. "No, I'm okay. You can send him in."

Dr. Myles pursed his lips. "Okay, but only for twenty minutes. I'm going to make an appointment for you at the hospital and you will be keeping it."

"Okay. Thank you, Dr. Myles."

"Any time, Dean. Though hopefully, never again, okay?"

Dean smiled, and then winced when both his cheeks flared with pain. He wasn't sure if he should be happy or not that Castiel had decked him on the opposite side of his original injury. Then his stomach twisted into knots again at the thought of Castiel. Before he could either scream or vomit again, two men entered his room. Dean felt fear grip his throat. Dr. Myles just didn't know. They didn't tell him because he didn't need to know how fucked up Dean was. He'd find out when he was led out in handcuffs.

Dean recognized the warden from the one time he'd met him on his first day on the job. The other man he didn't know. They both pulled up chairs and sat next to the bed after asking after Dean's health and shaking his hand.

"This is Mr. Dawson," the warden said. "He's our legal counsel."

Dean was on the verge of throwing up again. How would his parents react when they found out their son had helped a deranged murderer escape prison and was found unconscious and covered in jizz? His mother would never recover. And his father would probably disown him.

"Now, Officer Winchester, I know you just woke up and have sustained two traumatic blows in two days, but do your best to remember what you can," the lawyer said. "If you need to take a break, let us know."

Dean nodded.

"Okay," the warden said, "can you tell us how the cell door was unlocked and opened?"

"I-I did it," Dean admitted. He knew lying would only make things worse, but he wondered if there would be any way he might be able to get them to believe that maybe Castiel raped him or just jacked off on him while he was still unconscious. "Um, can I ask how he got out of the building?" Dean stalled as he thought furiously about how to lie without actually lying.

The warden cleared his throat and looked embarrassed. "Well, as it turns out, there was a reason he always wanted to be in the same solitary cell. He'd discovered that there was a vent in the wall under the cot. I would swear on my life it's not big enough for a grown man to fit through, but apparently Novak was a fucking contortionist or something."

"And that led outside?" Dean wondered why he'd waited to escape then. And why'd he'd felt the need to leave Dean in such a wretched state before he did.

"No, it only led to the ducts that service the whole damn prison. He found the way that led to the receiving room. He used his multiple trips to solitary to file away the bars covering the vent on that end. He must have been working on them the entire ten months he was here. Today he went through the opening and then walked out through receiving and into the front office. And then he walked out the front door."

Dean's brows drew together. "I don't understand, he walked out the front door?"

"Yep. You see, when the receptionist in the front room saw him come out of receiving, all she saw was an officer. And then when he used keys to unlock the door to get into the front room, she definitely thought he was just another corrections officer. And then he walked right out."

Dean took all this in. Castiel must have worn his uniform, which meant they hadn't found him covered in semen. That was the up side. The down side... Shame and humiliation washed over him. If he ever needed proof that Castiel had been playing him from the very beginning, this was it. Hicks' and Drake's uniforms would have been too small on him; Michelson was way too tall; Melvin was way too big. Dean and Castiel were about the same size. Dean was a little broader in the shoulders, but otherwise they were a perfect match. With Dean's uniform and keys, he had the final component he needed to make his escape. And Dean had spread his legs and let him have it all.

Mortified, he felt tears prick his eyes. Now he knew why he was bad. Why he was wrong. His desires had enabled a killer to escape prison. If he were normal, if he were right, he never would have felt such a sick temptation and Castiel would still be in prison.

"Officer Winchester?" Mr. Dawson interrupted his slow descent into hell.

"Ye-Yes?" Dean asked, forcing back the tears and looking at him.

"You’ve been employed here for three months, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“You entered the solitary wing alone this morning, is that also correct?"

"Yes."

"You are aware of the rule requiring two officers to be present at all times when in solitary?"

"Yes, sir. And we obey that for transfers, but for quick things like meal deliveries, we can't spare two officers from their duties."

"So, this wasn't the first time this has happened?"

"Well—"

"I mean going in by yourself."

"I've done it several times." Dean noticed the warden squirm in his seat, but continued. "Not just with Novak, but with other inmates when they were in the hole—in solitary."

"Have other guards gone alone too?"

"Yes. Like I said, we can't spare two officers for meal deliveries."

"So, the prisoners would be familiar with the fact that only one officer delivers their meals."

"Y-yes," Dean noticed the warden's discomfort again.

"Tell us what happened, Officer Winchester. As well as you can remember."

Dean had a split second to decide what to do. The sex didn't need to come up. There was no evidence of it, unless Dr. Myles had done a very thorough exam of his body, which was a possibility. But, he hadn't said anything about doing a rape kit. Maybe they all just assumed Castiel had punched Dean, stolen his clothes, and escaped. They just needed to know how the cell door got open. And he had told them how, but they needed the why. And he certainly couldn't tell them the truth about that. So, he lied.

"When I came into the room I saw Novak on the floor. I told him to get up, but he didn't respond. I nudged him with a foot through the bars, but he was still unresponsive. I set the breakfast tray down and tried to rouse him, but he appeared to be unconscious. I went for the radio button and the cell lock button at the same time. I thought I might need to begin to administer CPR before help arrived. I was about to radio for backup when I sensed movement behind me. I turned around and Novak was on his feet, coming at me. I realized a little too late that he was faking. And I don't remember anything after that. There wasn't even a fight. I'm sorry—"

"Don't apologize, Officer Winchester, you never should have been put in that position."

The warden was scowling and watching the lawyer scribble things down on his notepad.

"Just a couple more questions. In the times you delivered Novak his meals, did he ever talk to you? Maybe ask questions about the local transportation or the surrounding area—trees, houses, highways. Anything like that?"

Dean shook his head. "No, never," he answered honestly.

Mr. Dawson finished writing and clicked his pen closed. "Okay. Thank you for seeing us so soon. We appreciate it."

"No problem."

"Someone will be around to take your official statement later today or tomorrow. You just get some rest."

The warden and the lawyer stood up and shook Dean's hand again. He just sat there confused. Dr. Myles came back in.

"Do you know what's going on?" Dean asked him. "Why wasn't _that_ my official statement?"

"Because they're trying to do damage control."

"About what? Other than Novak I mean."

"Well, there's the fact that the solitary wing has never had cameras installed. And the fact that a continual breach of rules and safety regulations has taken place by sending officers in to deliver meals alone. They're just worried you're going to sue the pants off them and the entire county of LA."

Dean gaped. How on earth had he come out of this not only unscathed, but possibly in the right? He felt guilt rip and claw at his insides. Part of him wanted to call them back and admit to everything, but a larger part that didn't want to spend the rest of his life in jail or live with the disappointment of his parents held him back. He already felt like a big enough fool for allowing Castiel to get under his skin—to allow himself to feel worthiness from a man who wasn't fit to lick the dirt off his father's boots. He would have to carry this around with him for the rest of his life. He would also have the blood of any people Castiel killed on his hands. He did deserve to be in prison. But he was a coward. He knew that. So he kept his mouth shut.

***

Dean dropped his keys on the table next to the door of his apartment. His one year lease was nearly up and he was going to have to decide whether or not to keep the place. After the whole Novak escape debacle (and the convict was still in the wind) Dean had not sued the prison or the county of LA because he knew who was truly in the wrong, but he'd also been unable to continue his duties. He couldn't stay in a place that constantly reminded him of the worst thing he had ever done in his life. He'd resigned, but been given a good severance package that he shouldn't have been entitled to at all since he terminated the employment. But the warden was still worried he might sue and the truth of how a Russian mob hit man escaped his prison would come out.

Dean also withdrew his application from the LAPD. He was certain law enforcement was not a good career for him. He'd managed to survive on temp jobs for the last five months, but he couldn't do this forever. Maybe he just needed to go home like his mother kept asking him to do and apply to college. His parents had even agreed to pay for it and support him while he was in school if he would just come home. But he didn't know if he could look his parents in the eye anymore. He'd made excuses for not being able to make it home for Thanksgiving and Christmas—and he still didn't think he was ready to face them.

And piling on to the self-loathing and guilt was that every time he thought about how disappointed his parents were in him and how they would look at him if they ever knew the truth, his mind filled with memories of dark blue eyes. And he would remember how someone had thought he was worth more than the facade he presented to the world. That there was a person who had known him, known the worst of him, and had still thought he was good. Called him perfect. And Dean would have to fight back tears because the one time he had felt acceptance had all been a lie. But he just couldn't forget the feeling—even if it hadn't been true.

But worst of all were the nights when the memory of those eyes _didn't_ cause tears. There were the nights when he remembered that intense, consuming gaze on his skin like a tangible thing. He remembered when a voice that was usually moderate and flat would drop down low and growl his praises. And then Dean would find himself on his back, cock gripped tightly in his hand, large dildo in the other thrusting in and out of his hole. He would come with a name on his lips that he didn't dare speak when he was in his right mind.

Dean put a hand to his head. He had a feeling he knew what kind of night tonight was going to be. If thinking of Castiel Novak didn't make him feel nauseated, it made him check to make sure he still had enough lube in his nightstand. Maybe he should just get drunk tonight.

Dean was on his way to the kitchen for some tequila when someone knocked at his door. That in and of itself was strange since Dean hadn't made any friends in LA, but the fact that the person had covered the peephole with his hand was just fucking weird.

"Who is it?" Dean called out through the door.

He got no response.

"Seriously, dude, answer or go away. I'm not opening the door blind. I'm not a moron. Well, not a complete moron," he muttered to himself.

"Come on, Dean. Be a good boy and open the door."

Dean froze—shock, panic, and irritatingly enough, arousal coursing through his veins and making his whole body vibrate. It couldn't be possible. It just couldn't be—

Before he could have a rational conversation with himself, his hands were throwing open the deadbolts and pulling back the chain on the door. He flung it open and on the other side stood Castiel fucking Novak.

"Evening, Boss."


End file.
